Where Ponce de Leon Failed
by Tabby J Skylark
Summary: Chp 1 & 2 reversed! Smith vs. Ratcliffe. Fountain of youth, treasure city quest. A dark, original concept of maddness and adventure. History/Mythology. Anachronisms, historical inaccuracy, allusions, etc.
1. The Truth

WHERE PONCE DE LEON FAILED...  
  
Chapter 2: The Truth  
  
***  
  
John Smith shouted orders and jumped in wherever he was needed, overseeing his men load the last of their provisions for his latest adventure. His cool exterior contrasted visibly against the excited enthusiasm of his busy crew. They chattered like parakeets about their brave quest to a new world… and Smith stood back, thinking. Something was troubling him and he couldn't quite figure what. He had a generous backer for this voyage providing all the supplies they could possibly need… and free range to do whatever they pleased. By rights, he should be in high spirits… however…   
  
"John…" a familiar voice called from the distant right. Smith turned and saw a former comrade approaching with his trademark smile and friendly wave. He'd served under Smith several times over the years, originally meeting him on their voyage to the Virginia.   
  
"Lon!" the Captain returned the smile, though he was somewhat confused. Firstly, the sailor looked somehow different - even sounding slightly off. Secondly, he was supposed to be at sea. "What brings you out this way? I thought you went on some important quest for the King a few years back…"   
  
"I did. Just got in yesterday." Lon shook his former Captain's hand, still smiling. "Let me tell you it's good to be home!"  
  
"I never thought I'd hear you say that…" Smith reluctantly released his friend's hand. John couldn't think of Lon as an adventurer, but he was definitely a drifter. He could never stay anywhere for more than six months without becoming restless and moving on. He'd never married or had children, having wanderlust. He'd lived among the settlers in Jamestown for three months before returning to England and enlisting for another experience. If Lon was thankful to return to the motherland… something was up. "What's wrong?"  
  
The sailor's smile took on an air of ironic sadness as he sighed. "Well, John… I'll tell ya this. The rain forest wasn't worth the horrors of working under that madman again."   
  
John's jaw dropped. "You… you can't be serious, Lon!" It was all too ironic. He was surprised he hadn't assumed sooner. "I-"  
  
Lon was shocked. "I assumed you'd noticed. I mean, look at me, John!"  
  
Smith didn't understand this comment, but he had to admit Lon had never looked so good. He couldn't place exactly what was different about the man, but he'd certainly changed for the better. As an afterthought, the scandal struck him. "Then, you must know all about Ratcliffe's scam firsthand."  
  
Lon blinked, surprised. "Scam?"  
  
Smith realized Lon hadn't been among the ragtag crew behind the trained boy. "Ratcliffe hired a young actor to…"  
  
"Good GOD!" Lon interrupted, shocked and staring.   
  
Smith assumed his friend had just put the pieces together and was thunderstruck. "Yes, he actually thought he could pull it off. He-"  
  
"John! LOOK at me!" Lon grabbed him and shook hard. "Look, dammit!"   
  
Smith, startled, stared at his former comrade. The handsome drifter seemed to have taken temporary leave of his sense. Then it struck the skipper hard. Handsome? Lon wasn't just suddenly attractive - he had physically changed! He seemed slightly younger, more attractive…  
  
"You're…"  
  
"I only took a swig, John. Just a sip of the stuff."   
  
"OH… MY… GOD…"   
  
***   
  
They slumped in the condemned shack Lon was temporarily crashing in as he waited to be reassigned. As a man who was at sea for years at a time he had no official residence. He just drifted from friend to friend, host to host, abandoned shed to shed. Lon sat at a filthy table he'd just set upright. He silently sipped some heavy liquor, understanding why he hated his people.   
  
Smith sat on the floor, leaning against the wall, head down. He wasn't sure if he believed his comrade's story. It was impossible. Yet, it wasn't the thought of a fountain of youth that was so unbelievable… it was the fact… that charming Adonis really HAD been Governor John Ratcliffe.   
  
He glanced up, blond strands slipping into his blue eyes. He wanted to speak, ask a thousand questions… but he couldn't. He just looked at Lon, living proof. Smith was to set sail at first light… yet, he knew he couldn't leave now.   
  
Lon broke the silence, "I just assumed everyone would believe. I mean, the crew was all living proof the claim was God's truth. Their families will vouch for that. Friends and acquaintances too. I never figured the English so stupid…"  
  
Smith's expression darkened, "How could any of you have expected us to believe? Not only is it unimaginable… it… it was Ratcliffe… The man's a pathological liar. A fool too!"  
  
"But-"  
  
"Lon, the fountain of youth has never been associated with enhancing appearance! Think about it. These men of living proof? Their families won't recognize them! They aren't just young again… they look entirely different. Their appearance had changed. Ratcliffe has no proof! He wasn't a shred the same. He wasn't even a shadow of the same man! Everyone in the room, including myself, knew what a young Ratcliffe would look like… and… that boy wasn't it."   
  
Lon was silent, understanding.   
  
"The fool was so concerned with his moment of glory and rubbing it in our faces… he didn't explain… didn't clear things up. He should have explained it all before showing his face. He's a idiot! An idiot!" John thumped the back of his head against the wall in frustration. He sighed, adding as a softer afterthought, "He deserves to hang…"   
  
Lon sighed. "I hear the reward for turning him in alive is pretty handsome. Shame they'll never believe the boy they've already captured is their man. They'll have a price on the Governor's head long after it's lobbed off."   
  
Smith sighed and thumped the back of his head against the wall again, gently this time. He sat in quiet contemplation, wrestling with himself. He wasn't always the most moral man… but it seemed wrong for a man to die for a crime he didn't commit - even if he deserved to die for past crimes he'd never been punished for. He debated even this. Did Ratcliffe deserve to die for the things he'd done to him over the years?   
  
His train of thought changed entirely. He returned to images of a tropical rain forest, though he never seen one before. His mind couldn't part with adventure for long. He pictured it very green and somewhat damp. He'd heard it was horribly humid. He closed his eyes and wondered why an undeserving fool like Ratcliffe would be granted such an experience? Someday he would brave that ancient terrain… and it would be the adventure of his life.   
  
His day dream shifted as he began to fall asleep… the forest was filled with the relaxing sounds of a babbling brook. As he scanned this imaginary forest… it all looked similar - green. As he skimmed he almost passed something unexpected, something unusual and grayish brown. He stopped and slid back. What was it? There was the stream and hanging before it, from the ancient trees… hung a rotting skeleton.   
  
John cried out, snapping back to reality. The hollow horror in those empty sockets… the startling concept… His blue eyes darted about the room until they came to rest on a confused, concerned Lon. "John, what's wrong? Drift off?"  
  
"Sort of." John held his head. "I think… I don't know." He wanted to tell the sailor he'd had some sort of vision - a premonition. Unfortunately, he knew such things were deranged and dangerous to speak of. Too many people were punished for straying for the Lord's flock.   
  
He finally added, "Do you know the spring's location?"   
  
"No." Lon hesitated. "No, I don't."   
  
"The secret will die with him."   
  
Lon sighed sadly, "I'm afraid it will."  
  
***  
  
Ironically, young Ratcliffe was sitting in the very same position as Smith - only in a cell. He leaned against the dripping stonewall, cold and apprehensive, alone in the King's dungeon. Head hanging, his black hair looked wet yet dry and was handsomely disheveled. His dark eyes were to the floor. He looked distant… lost. His trail had yet to be scheduled, but when he did… he was certain they'd make quick work of him. They're only debate would be on the form of execution.   
  
He'd spent many hours in the dark debating which way was easiest. Wondering which end he should hope for. A bitter, crazed darkness was filling his soul… and he knew before he'd ever see a judge and jury he'd be completely mad.   
  
He felt like quite the tragic hero. In fact, his acquaintance Will Shakespeare couldn't have written a better tragedy then he was currently living. The boy sighed, feeling as though he'd been elevated towards glory… rising towards Act Three with such potential… just able to see all his dreams about to come true. Unfortunately, his tragic flaw (ego) was now bringing about his unexpected downfall. He sat in the darkness knowing once the curtains closed on Act Three… there was no turning back. The downward slide began. The fall from grace. Avalanche - get the hell out of the way.   
  
A few months earlier, he'd been the happiest man alive, no question. After a miserable life… all his dreams had finally come true. He'd discovered the secret to eternity. He had been granted the beautiful face and form he'd never dreamed possible. He'd been given a second chance. A new life, a new youth. He expected to finally have his glory. In his mind, his moment had finally come. For years he'd ecstatically awaited for the time when he could return to England and finally have his dreams become reality. He'd expected to become the most beautiful, rich and famous man to ever grace the globe.   
  
Instead, he was the opposite in every way but one … and staring blankly… he knew external youth and beauty couldn't save him from death or insanity…   
  
***  
  
Few people stood on the docks to watch Samantha's Sunset set out on her voyage. In fact, the seagulls were louder then the farewells. Smith preferred a small ship, crew and send-off. He didn't broadcast his plans, unlike certain Governors. However, as he briskly cut through the crowd, his mind was focused on only one thought. For the good of the world, he had to get the hell out of the country.   
  
"John, listen to me…" a handsome sailor chased his former leader up the plank. "You can't go!"   
  
Smith turned to Lon, his belongings slung over his shoulder. "We've talked this to death. You know it's the only way. If I stay here I'll go mad. The temptation will be too great and I'll talk. Now, get out of England as quick as you can. Though no one would believe any of it from you… you'll go crazy sticking around."  
  
"But-" Lon stopped, watching John go. He sighed sadly, turning. As he wandered back down to the docks, he glanced over his shoulder and saw Smith wrestling with himself again. He looked as though he might drop his bag and jump overboard. He called up, "Go, John. You're right. You're right about everything."  
  
"I know." John replied. "It's just so hard!"  
  
They stood in silence… the fate of the world in their hands…  
  
Lon sighed, "God's speed, John."  
  
"Bye, Lon. Take care."  
  
***  
  
Count William Wexford-Smyth II chattered cheerfully with his new attendant. A bright boy of pleasuring face, but slight form. He was incredibly intelligent and refreshingly cheerful. His professional, yet uplifting air was exactly what he'd been hoping for as he searched for a new friend and footman.   
  
Smyth was what many would call a "rich, half wit son". His father had died early and he preferred to think of himself as a young successor with little experience. Reasonably attractive, the young man was always smiling and quite popular. He unfortunately failed to see this popularity was due to the fact he constantly threw money away, especially to those around him. Everyone wanted to be close company with a "rich, half wit son".   
  
As the carriage halted, the attractive attendant hoped from the carriage and assisted his master with perfect poise, style and smartness. Fanfare sounded his arrival, but unlike some, the Count failed to even notice it. He was so conditioned to such routines he couldn't see or hear them anymore.   
  
Approaching the ship, he waved cheerfully to a confused John Smith. The gallant Captain met the Count on the dock, unsure of what to expect. "Captain Smith, pleasure. I'm sure you remember me." he jested lightly. "How are you, dear fellow?"   
  
"Fine, your lordship. And yourself?" Smith showed appropriate respect, but an uneasy feeling arouse within him. He hoped the Count was merely present to send him off.   
  
"I'm afraid I have some unfortunate news for your, John."   
  
Smith's heart sank. The half wit son had blown their budget.   
  
"It seems I miscalculated, dear fellow, and spent the money set aside for your voyage. I'm afraid I've no choice but to put the entire thing on hold. I'm sorry." The careless count was incredibly honest. Any other noble would invent some excuse, lie for dignity's sake. Not Wexford-Smyth. He cluelessly confessed his foolishness without a second thought.   
  
"It's quite all right, your grace." Smith lied. He really needed to escape England and now he was stuck until the fool accumulated more money. They had ships and supplies that weren't paid for. They had no budget for the road. Fortunately, with all the businesses Wexford-Smyth owned… it wouldn't be too long before he racked up the cash… as long as he didn't spend it again.  
  
"I do hope everything will turn out alright… considering the delay." Smyth wasn't sure what Smith would do now. "Will the supplies store? Will the ship and sailors…"   
  
"Don't worry, sir. Everything will be fine. I'll handle it all personally and we can set sail when you give the word." Smith was an old hand with such scenarios. They were unpleasant, but workable.   
  
"Oh, your such a capital character, Smith! Such a card." He shook Smith's hand as though they were equals and turned to bid adieu. However, an afterthought hit him and he stopped, smiling. "Smith, I'm having a ball this evening. I would be thrilled if you attended."   
  
Knowing it was in his best interest, Smith forced a smile and respectful bow. "I would be honored, m'lord."   
  
"Excellent! My dear attendant will leave you with the details… Cheerio!" With that, the scatter brained nobleman strolled cheerfully along the red carpet towards his awaiting carriage.   
  
The young servant standing behind his master remained, holding an invitation. Yet, he stood staring at Smith, as though expecting something. Confused, the captain extended his hand for the invite. The boy's highlighted red-brown hair was the length of his own… but with charming volume, framing his face.   
  
Realizing he was mistaken for expecting an exchange of words, the servant released the letter. He gave a small, respectful bow and hesitantly returned to his waiting master.   
  
Smith sighed, realizing he had to inform the crew and make countless arrangements immediately. Shortly after he would have to prepare for the Count's party - a smooth social move that would ensure future financial backing - and then he'd have to find another solution to his original problem. He had to resist the temptation of the greatest adventure of all the time - the quest for the fountain of youth… and the remarkable gift it offered.   
  
***  
  
John Smith, dressed in his best, stood along the sidelines, feeling out of place and wondering why he'd bothered to attend the Count's ball. He had so many other matters on the mind. He was sorely tempted to speak with the "Governor" and discover all he could about the fountain of youth. A few words with Wexford-Smyth and he could change the coordinates for this quest…   
  
The captain shook his head, scolding himself. He'd been over it several times… and the world would be better off without such a power. It would bring out more war, hatred and greed then anything else every before. Many men would life forever. Perhaps all men would live forever. Simply put - it was wrong. Downright dangerous!  
  
However, at the moment he found it difficult to debate anything. The Count's young attendant was making him uneasy - something about his eyes - such a startling shade of blue. Throughout the evening he and the strange servant had made eye contact repeatedly. In the corner of his eye, Smith often caught the aide staring at him! His eyes somehow made the sailor uncomfortable…   
  
Eventually, the young stranger made his way across the room towards him. The ordeal on the dock returned to Smith, the boy approaching expectantly. What was he expecting? Especially attractive this evening… the boy stopped before him. "Good evening, Captain Smith." His voice was melodious, charming.  
  
"Good evening. Can I help you?"   
  
  
"Captain, I've come to beseech your help in a matter of utmost importance…"  
  
Smith interrupted, "Well, could you have been a little less creepy about it? Sakes alive, man!"  
  
Awkwardly, the boy apologized, "I'm sorry, sir. It took me the full day to work up the nerve to speak with you. Years ago we parted on wretched terms and the matter I wish to discuss…" He trailed off and seemed to force himself to get to the point:  
  
"I know you know the truth, sir."  
  
"What?" Smith blinked.   
  
"You know about the fountain. I saw you speaking with Lon when we arrived this morning."  
  
Smith froze, mortified. "I- who are you?"  
  
The youth avoided the question. "Please, you know the Governor is telling the truth. I realize he's a monster… but he's going to die for all the wrong reasons and… and… take the secret with him."  
  
"One could discover the secret without saving his life. Nice try."  
  
"But… he… please, I owe him my allegiance and I can't save him!"   
  
"Allegiance? But…"  
  
It was Wiggins. 


	2. Fallen Glory

WHERE PONCE DE LEON FAILED  
  
Chapter One: Falling Glory  
  
***  
  
Smith peered through the crowded court that lined the red carpet, shoved to the back due to social status. On excellent terms with His Majesty these days he was welcome in court, unfortunately he had to fend for himself against the aristocrats - who would metaphorically eat their own children. Dressed in his best, the captain wouldn't have missed this occasion for all the adventures of Sinbad.   
  
Smith had set back his latest voyage (to chase the wind and land spontaneously to face whatever fate presented) in order to attend the homecoming of his former Jamestown nemesis, Governor Ratcliffe. The aging and greedy governor was returning from a very long trek to the unknown tropics of the Southern Americas. After weaseling out of two trials for very serious offenses, the well-to-do had finally had enough of his pathetic attempts to social climb. The miscreant was forced into leading a voyage to a newly discovered rain forest, when all knew he hadn't been able to handle Virginia. At best, they'd never hear from him again… at worse, he'd return in a few decades.   
  
Normally, Smith would care nothing for Ratcliffe or the petty affairs of the King's court, however… this was different. Entirely different. Ratcliffe was returning, having sent word ahead and acquiring permission. Why would the royals agree to his return? What could the arrogant ass possibly have said to make himself bearable? The answer had the streets filled with inquisitive English, eager for information. The Governor had made an impossible claim. A claim that had sparked the curiosity of all England. Every noble was present, waiting with baited breath. Ratcliffe alleged an unbelievable discovery. A discovery that if proven true would change the world forever!   
  
John Ratcliffe claimed to have discovered the fountain of youth.  
  
***  
  
King James I of England and VI of Scotland sat silently upon his throne, wrapping his fingers with impatience. It was obvious the Governor was lying through his discolored teeth, dying to get home. Many had searched the New Worlds for the legendary "fountain of youth" but all had failed. It was a myth - the last hope of desperate dreamers. Not a soul in the room believed the claim, though they all secretly prayed it was true. Unfortunately, the wild story would seem doubtful from a reliable source… and John Ratcliffe was anything but reality. The lying, untrustworthy, self-serving villain was the last person one could trust the accounts of. James thoughts trailed away into a blur of negative emotions. It was ridiculous. Ratcliffe could not be believed. A fellow of his caliber lied about the weather.   
  
Nonetheless, he eyed the door uneasily. Within his heart of hearts he hoped the myths were true… but had long left those fantasies behind with boyhood. He continued to tap his fingers subconsciously. He was often impatient - as the supreme ruler of two nations he was forced to deal with all sorts of annoying and unpleasant things - but today was quite different. Today his impatience was more like anxiety. The waiting was gradually building to nausea. He continued to wrap his jeweled fingers, watching the door… waiting for the fanfare…   
  
Not one to be defeated by emotion, James turned to his aide, having a notion to request for Shakespeare after his awful audience with the Governor had come to a close. He would need cheer after that affair. A comedy would do nicely. However, though he parted his lips, not a sound left them - for the trumpets sounded.   
  
The golden doors opened regally and a procession started down the royal red carpet towards the expecting throne. No announcement was made and his Highness was confused - no Ratcliffe in sight. Every soul in the room had been holding their breath… and now… some stranger was in their midst. Disappointed murmurs came from every angle and James shifted uncomfortably in his throne. Something was wrong. His unease tightened and he subconsciously wondered if it would suffocate him.   
  
***  
  
The confused and disappointed crowd's reaction got the better of confused Smith and he shoved to the front to learn what was happening. There, he saw the source of the crowd's displeasure. It wasn't the Governor at all. A ragtag team from God knows where was proceeding down the rug towards James, lead by a stranger.   
  
"Ratcliffe's dead." The whispers rose. The weak Governor had nearly been lost on the treacherous trek down to what was later known as South America. The jungles had ruined what little health the fool had. Perhaps the nobles plan to kill the man had actually worked. Perhaps… he hadn't survived the returning voyage. The letter had been sent from their settlement in the rain forest after all. The Governor was dead!   
  
John returned his focus to the stranger among them. Though his crew looked shabby, he had royal escorts and had arranged for a royal procession. He dressed and carried himself as though he were nobility. However, not a soul in the room had laid eyes upon him before. He was a peculiar character - attractive though. He had short, black hair and dark brown eyes. He was somewhat pale - but not sickly. Smith noted he was the best dressed person in the room aside from King James himself.  
  
"Such strange garments…" the uneasy, confused whispers continued.   
  
"Is he a royal of their land?" an older man asked Smith.   
  
The foreign stranger certainly seemed different. Never before had anyone of his caliber crossed their paths. He passed these gawking spectators as though he was superior. He didn't make eye contact or even acknowledge their existence. He instead focused on his Majesty, smiling the most charming smile to every grace the royal court. However, as he passed John Smith… he turned and smirked. John blinked, surprised. Had he imagined it? Mistook it? If the smirk had happened… was there any recognition in it?   
  
More unnerving then the man's expression… had been his face!   
  
He was a boy.  
  
***  
  
His Highness' initial emotion was relief. His thoughts black and white. False alarm. Not Ratcliffe. The fool must not have survived. He had relaxed for an instant. However, now… he was second guessing everything. Why had their been no announcement? Who was this unexpected noble? Was his foreign royalty? Why was he so young?   
  
The darkly attractive youth had never appeared in his court before, yet he was well aware of protocol. He stopped at just the point he ought and bowed respectful, removing his plumped hat. His hair was styled with a shiny, wet look none present had ever seen before. The youth possessed a chilling air and an expression of malicious joy…   
  
James realized this was worse than a dozen Ratcliffes…  
  
He glanced to the back and realized the royal fanfare was just as perplexed as the rest. Every aspect of the situation unnerved the court. He was unexpected. He had failed to identify himself. He had outrageous hair and clothing. He was clearly of nobility, but a stranger to them all. His expressions… his attitude… his youth…   
  
James exchanged a look with his historian, who seemed the only one among them to be perfectly at ease. His knowing eyes were so readable that the monarch followed his thoughts. He recalled all the stories he'd learned about the ancient Empires. He almost smiled as he recalled Pharaohs and Emperors who had been children. This was yet another very foreign and probably very ancient world. Young nobility was probably common place among them. However, this was no child… and upon closer inspection… James realized he wasn't exactly a boy either. He was probably about 18. The Historians eyes secretly smiled as though they said, 'Octavian was only 18.'   
  
Before James could consent the boy spoke and shocked everyone…  
  
Firstly, before they even comprehended his words, they were surprised by his accent. British! How was this possibly? Who was he? Was he one of their own? Why was he dressed as though he was of another culture?  
  
His words hit home. Utter shock. Dead silence.   
  
The boy had said, "Greetings your majesty! I have returned."   
  
***  
  
The young man stood before the throne, smiling with sadistic pleasure. The seed had been sown and suddenly the crowd exploded into whispering chaos. All around him they murmured with scattered confusion. He watched silently, trying to contain his joy. The look of surprise on James' face alone was priceless. He wished he could see Smith. He supposed there would be plenty of time for basking in their admiration later. How absolutely delicious this was turning out to be! Just as planned!  
  
James continued to stare at him for a few moments, clearly surprised. He slowly held his hand to silence the spectators. As the whispers died… the sovereigns expression and air changed entirely. It was impossible for the boy to place his ruler's tone… but it wasn't at all sincere. It seemed almost… almost…  
  
"And you are, dear boy?" It sounded so polite, so unsuspecting.  
  
*He knows.* the stranger realized. *He knows everything.*  
  
The youth summoned all the confidence he could muster and replied, as he'd recited a thousand times, "Why, your grace, it is I, your loyal Governor Ratcliffe."   
  
Terrified silence.   
  
However, as the nobles were frightened… so was the boy. King James' expression startled him. The monarch didn't look surprised at all. In fact, it was as though he'd been expecting this shocking revelation. The silence loomed for an unnaturally long time, all waiting to see their King's response.   
  
The monarch smiled warmly, "Ah, John. I see you've returned home safely at last. Obviously your claim to finding waters of eternal youth was true. Remarkable."   
  
John? The boy swallowed hard. This was all wrong. Unexpected. James wasn't ruffled, in fact, there wasn't a hint of surprise from the man at all. His tone wasn't doubtful… it was almost warm and accepting. John? Too friendly, unnatural. By rights the ruler should have been skeptical… or at least excited… or something…   
  
He continued, as prepared. "Yes, your majesty. I have succeeded where Ponce de Lione failed. I have discovered the legendary fountain of youth and claimed her for our beloved England!"   
  
Now the aristocrats murmured. Did they believe?  
  
"Remarkable." James repeated. "Simply remarkable."  
  
The attractive adolescent learned too late, *He's mocking me.*   
  
James, toying slowly, added, "However… I knew John Ratcliffe in his youth… and you, my boy, look nothing like him. Nothing." As the king waited for a response, his expression darkened.   
  
Everything had gone by the wayside. The young man could see himself hanging and realized he hadn't a shred of evidence or a prayer to bless himself with. The young leader glanced around the room as many unintelligible agreements were made. His pulse raced and sweat started down his neck. He'd been so foolish. SO foolish. How could he have…  
  
"Even if I had not known Ratcliffe when he was your age, boy, common sense dictates a perfect nose does not grow large and hooked with age. It is physically impossible for a child of your beauty to ever let himself go enough to mutate into the likes of that… crook."   
  
Silence. The well dressed visitor had no response.   
  
James continued, on a roll, "The majority of those present were acquainted with John Ratcliffe in his youth and I assure you, all will testify he was as ugly then as he is now. Fountain of youth, indeed! Of all your employer's schemes this is the most pathetic, the most ridiculous!"  
  
The royal calmed and motioned for the boy to approach. Removing his lovely hat again the handsome fellow stepped forward, kneeling within range. James leaned forward and in a soft, intimidating voice asked, "Did you really think you could get away with it?" When the youth didn't answer he added, "Do you take me for a fool?"  
  
"No, sire." the boy found his voice. "Never."   
  
"Child, you have three seconds to save yourself. Confess your part in this conspiracy and the whereabouts of your employer and I shall be far more merciful."  
  
"But, sire…"  
  
"One."  
  
"But, I AM Ratcliffe-"  
  
"Two."  
  
The accused changed tactics, "I don't know where he is! I-"  
  
"Three."   
  
James snapped his fingers and instantly the youth was snatched by guards. He struggled viciously, desperately begging and wildly screeching. He kicked and screamed… losing all dignity… until he was eventually dragged out after his captured crew. "Sire, let me explain! Please, I swear to you, I… I… just let me explain!"  
  
The last thing the boy saw as the golden doors slammed was the handsome Captain's expression. It was Smith's turn to smirk.   
  
***  
  
*…this is my last chance for glory…*  
  
Ratcliffe tossed and turned in a near delirious sleep. As usual, his dreams were bad. So bad in fact, that they weren't dreams at all - they were nightmares. He could scarcely recall a time when his childhood had been filled with innocent dreams of beautiful music and carefree laughter. His heart was cold to such things now. Frozen. Such warm, positive concepts seemed impossibly far away. Fragile and fading… falling…  
  
Falling… the gun… someone please… falling… help… gun… No, pl- NO!  
  
*BANG!*  
  
He slammed awake, feeling as though he'd just crashed into his mattress after falling in a long, downward spiral of darkness. The world spun and for a moment he thought himself drowning. However, he soon realized he was soaked with sweat. He lay, startled and panting… heart racing rapidly…   
  
The world continued to whirl… He lay, staring into the dizzy darkness… waiting for it all to stop. The whirling would soon cease. It always did. His doctor had called these strange wakes "night terrors" and claimed they were physiological and entirely different from dreams. A sleeping disorder of the nervous system. Crazed notions. The governor hadn't been at all surprised when the man had been burned alive for witchcraft.   
  
When all was still and his system had calmed… he sat up. As he rubbed his eyes, he thoughtlessly mumbled, "I've never been a popular man…"  
  
A new panic shocked through him and he struggled to his feet, his heart weak and his health poor, as it had been for decades. Blindly, he stumbled about in a frenzied, frightened state… He couldn't comprehend the darkness… couldn't comprehend where he was. Delirious, dizzy and disoriented the Governor grasped cold metal and muttered to himself, half crazed.   
  
Then he stood silently, breathing heavy. He stared into the unknown dark… remembering very little. Slowly, with much effort, memories penetrated and he realized why he was holding ice cold bars. Grasping the iron, memories flooded back and he felt physically ill. James… Smith… impostor… court…   
  
He was going to hang. 


	3. Wiggins

Canada's back, baby! The first nation of hockey! Vive le Canada!  
  
Praise the Lord. Congratulations to all Olympians. Thank you, God! ^_^  
  
***  
  
WHERE PONCE DE LEON FAILED...  
  
Chapter Three: Wiggins   
  
Disclaimer: The Pocahontas characters all belong to Disney. Everyone else belongs to history… unless I mentioned some secondary character (Ah yes, the historian!)… then they belong to yours truly. Thanks.   
  
Ya… I had previously forgotten a disclaimer. Sorry Disney!   
  
A/N: Thanks for the reviews! I wasn't going to continue if I didn't get some kind of audience. I'll probably take all suggestions at this point one way or another. (BTW, it may seem like John Smith is my favourite character… but I barely like him. He just works for most of this story.)  
  
***  
  
Smith sat below deck, in lowly surroundings, wondering where his head had been when he'd agreed to meet at all, let alone here. He tried to mask his sighing impatience, as they were only ten minutes in, but… watching an awkward, but now sparklingly attractive young servant blunder about, attempting to pour refreshments… but only succeeding in spilling them… his patience was wearing. However, the Captain was in no position to complain - they were using a dirty old cargo crate for a table and the air smelled of the putrid parts of a sailor's life.   
  
"Thank you for meeting me, sir." The boy's voice was melodious and steady… but his trembling hands implied otherwise. He was very nervous. Smith watched the usually sturdy, reliable serving hands fumble further and wondered what had changed Wiggins' mannerism. "I… er… um…"   
  
"Something wrong?" Smith bit his lip, trying not to snap. When the attendant's obligations to Wexford-Smyth had prevented them from speaking further… the boy had pleaded for an audience. Smith had hurriedly arranged a meeting on his boat, which in reality belonged to the Count and was still being negotiated over. Smith slept here, though Lon was willing to share his disgusting squatter's shanty.   
  
Wiggins, startled by the question, twitched involuntarily. It was almost an uncomfortable wince. Awkward no matter how lovely the face. The adventurer shook his head - you could make him more attractive and give him an amazing position, but Wiggins was still Wiggins. Lon was still Lon. Ratcliffe was still Ratcliffe. Superficial folk were fools.   
  
The uneasy blue eyes glanced up through sparkling brown-red strands and the youth sighed, "I'm sorry, Captain. I've… just… never disobeyed a master before… and I… just started this job… I…"  
  
Smith was caught off guard. "What?"  
  
"I'm not suppose to be here right now. I was to tend to the Count's affairs, his mail, his clothes, his pets, relay today's preferences to the chefs and entertainers, manage his finances while the accountant is away, finish-" Though the voice strengthened with the relief of confession… it rambled, gaining speed.   
  
"Wiggins." Smith interrupted, blunt.   
  
"Sorry, sir." The boy's cheeks flushed slightly. In the silence that followed… Smith understood. He watched Wiggins' uncomfort, his glowing, though anxious, eyes avoiding the seaman. A lifetime of conditioning, of strict training, of enforced social order… was responsible for the mess before him. Smith had never really understood aristocratic servants… but at that moment, looking at the boy, frightened of taking a false step… he recognized an inferiority complex and a great fear. Pavlov's theory made perfect sense - the master beckons (bell or no) and the servant with a mixture of fear, loyalty and obligation instantly responds. Through conditioning of the subconscious brainwashing sort… the youth had to serve with every once of his being. In a flash of realization Smith understood Wiggins.   
  
Unfortunately, the moment came and went, and Smith found himself speaking, "You've never disobeyed a master before?"  
  
"Never." Wiggins answered uncharacteristically. The Captain had expected a shocked, melodramatic tone. Instead, he was answered with a dark edge that triggered thoughts of harsh conditioning again. Though the response was still pleasant Wiggins… there was something there that implied more.  
  
Silence.  
  
"Why did you ask to see me, Wiggins?" Smith sighed.  
  
"Though I've moved on to the Count's court… I'm still bound to the Governor. Not by contact, but by code. As a servant I can't turn my back and…"  
  
"But your position with the Governor is over. He's in prison."  
  
"It's not over. I was never dismissed, nor did my time expire. Just because he's behind bars doesn't mean my job ends. I was forced to seek finances elsewhere, true… but… this only gives me TWO masters."  
  
"Oh."  
  
Smith studied the suddenly steady youth for a moment, realizing he was extremely loyal (downright honourable)… but only due to blind, conditioned stupidity. Everything the boy had just said, no matter how noble, was absolutely idiotic!   
  
"He's in jail. This is your chance to escape him. You've got a decent job now, kid. Forget him and move on. They'll execute him and you'll never be troubled with his ungrateful, ignorant, arrogant attitude again. How could you even THINK of helping him?"  
  
"He may be a monster some moments, but others, he's almost decent." The attendant trailed off, realizing he was trying to convince himself more than the sailor. He sighed, "Look. He's terrible. I'd stay with the Count obviously. I realize it's all futile. I just want to say I tried. I want to look back on my career and know that every day, in ever situation, I did absolutely everything I could to do my duty."  
  
"Wiggins - shut up."  
  
"I know he's always been awful, sir. I realize he's beyond second chances, especially with you. I realize that. I'm NOT stupid. I just don't know where else to turn. YOU know the truth. The King listens to you. You could at least try and we could both walk away with our consciences clear."  
  
Smith laughed, but then grew serious, "Wiggins, there's no honour among evil. Ratcliffe doesn't deserve your loyalty. Do you lack long term memory? Don't you remember his mistreatment of you? The mockery, the disrespect. You don't even want to know what was said and done behind you back. You always tolerated far more than you ever had to. You stood by him the last time he landed himself in prison. You remained with him through the South America fiasco. You've done your duty. You owe him nothing!"  
  
"I-"  
  
"Just walk away. No regrets. No guilt. You owe him NOTHING."  
  
"I doesn't work that way. Code can't be broken. If people followed their feelings, disregarding code whenever logic dictated… think the state the world would be in…"  
  
"Ridiculous, idealist thinking. Wake up! You did more for that man than could ever be expected of anyone. You have nothing more to prove, kid. Just WALK."   
  
"People have to keep their word! They have to honour their vows. I pledged I'd do my duty and… and…" Smith had the look. Everyone looked at him that way. Everyone gave him that same damn look. "Stop looking at me like that… I… just… I'm… Damn you! I'm NOT stupid!!"   
  
Silence, save the boys frustrated breathing. His entire existence he'd been judged and treated like a twit. Perhaps he was a twit, but he was sick of it. Especially considering Smith had just informed him even Ratcliffe had disliked him…  
  
"I'm not stupid." He repeated quietly.   
  
Smith stood sharply, "Oh, you ARE stupid. By even being here you're breaking your 'sacred code'. You've already disobeyed a master. You can't look back on a spotless record now anyway. Forget Ratcliffe and get a life. You're a hypocrite. An absolute fool."  
  
As the Captain brushed passed Wiggins, he left the boy only to stare off, thinking. Ouch. Eventually, he would have to rise and show himself the door. However, at that moment, he didn't know if he'd ever even be able to stand again…  
  
***  
  
"I've never really seen anything like it, Lon." Smith was skipping rocks across the water from the dock. "I've never seen someone so warped, so conditioned. The guy had no idea what he was even saying - he was preprogrammed or something. The world was so black and white to him. This was right and this was wrong. No gray. Just like the church. No gray."  
  
Lon watched John and sighed, "Look. I worked with Wiggins more closely in South America. You're right. He comes from a long line of servants. He was trained to serve royalty. He's been programmed to see the world a very specific way. The master is always right. The master must always be obeyed. Turn a blind eye, wash you hands."  
  
"Wash your hands, Pilate." John said quietly.  
  
"What?" Lon blinked, turning to him.  
  
"Nothing. Continue…" came the sigh.  
  
"All I'm saying is… you're dealing with a fellow who sees the world very differently from you or I. His thoughts are filled with duty. He's loyal to his master as a sailor is to his Skipper. Only, in Wiggins mind mutiny is unthinkable. I mean, you should have seen him on the voyage, John. He followed Ratcliffe everywhere, listening to every syllable. Sincere respect, sincere devotion. It's more than a job - it's his life. People in his line… they LIVE to serve. It's everything. Everything."  
  
"He's a hypocrite." Smith countered.   
  
Lon sighed, "His first loyalty is to the Governor. If that means slipping out on the Count, his secondary concern, then so be it. I don't hold THAT against him. I mean - it's not like he betrayed the count or downright disobeyed an order. He just snuck out for the better part of an hour to do some good in this world. A fellow like Wexford-Smyth would respect that. Love to hear, I dare say…"  
  
"He insulted Ratcliffe on both occasions, I'll remind you."  
  
Lon sighed and rolled his eyes, "John… he was dealt a bad hand. Ratcliffe is a horrible master for a servant of his loyalty to be forced under. I can see how that sort of thing could wear him down so that he'd make the odd comment with the man locked up. What specifically did he say?"  
  
"Well, he was agreeing with me about Ratcliffe. Being sympathetic to my perspective and…" Smith trailed off, Lon nodding with a smirk. "Oh." He understood.  
  
"All the crafty little elements of persuasion."   
  
"Right." John frowned. He stopped and stepped back from the water. It seemed that Wiggins had been doing all he could to get Ratcliffe off the executioner's block. He'd just been being agreeable to win Smith's help.   
  
"He was just trying to get you on his side, Smith."  
  
"Maybe…" John tried to remember the tones Wiggins had used. "I don't know. I… maybe."  
  
"We can't all chose where our loyalties lie, John. We can't all chose our lives, our destinies. Just because YOUR free doesn't mean we all are. Remember that."  
  
***  
  
Wiggins let his chin length, face framing hair down before the mirror. It was brownish-red with sparkling hues, his eyes a blue that complimented them perfect. The spring water knew beauty as doctor's know pulse. The fountain's magical grasp of contrast, space and all around perfection was dazzling. After months and months he still hadn't gotten over the feeling of being beautiful. He'd always been so… well, unattractive. There had been few opportunities to study his new self in mirrors on their adventure… but now, back in England, he found himself gazing at his face at every opportunity. It was becoming a worrisome addiction.   
  
He certainly wasn't vain. After all the years of awkward appearance he knew better than to take such a precious gift for granted. However, he couldn't stop looking at himself. He couldn't stop studying said gift. Not because he feared it wouldn't last, not because he loved himself now… and not even out of appreciation, though this was closer than all other explanations. Truth be told, he had no idea why he constantly glanced at his reflection in glass, water, metal… wherever he could. He just did.   
  
He supposed he'd have to settle on gratitude, some form of appreciation, as the best reasoning behind it. This would explain why he wasn't the least bit sorry it hadn't improved his physique more. He wasn't as thin as a stick these days… but he certainly looked boyish. He studied his pajamas and frowned slightly. He supposed his prissy manner only emphasized his thin frame. However, the fountain was too kind - it had fleshed him out slightly. Returning from the Americas and starting out with Count Wexford-Smyth he'd promised to start fresh and leave his oddities behind. So far so fail. New look or not… he was still Wiggins. People couldn't change their true character. Could they?   
  
*Wiggins, people can change… but they seldom do.*   
  
The Governor had said that once or twice. However, so had King James and a thousand others. Ratcliffe rarely had an original thought, it seemed.   
  
Wiggins sighed and stepped back from the mirror. He wondered how foolish he would look if someone walked in upon him… staring obsessively close at his own reflection. He was constantly second guessing himself these days. Smith had brought about the greatest example earlier that very day. The servant was a walking, talking example of hypocrisy.  
  
"Everything I know is wrong." He sighed to himself, his eyes dropping.  
  
A little bell rang and his eyes darted upward instantly. They failed to avoid of the mirror though, as always, and he caught the obedient, conditioned look that always filled them when he was summoned. Smith had been right about many things… and the fact that Wiggins was hesitating even now to serve highlighted another change within him. It seemed people were wrong about change.   
  
As Wiggins hurried down the hall to the Count's quarters, he didn't skip. He walked briskly. Yes, things were changing… but little did the boy know… they were changing only in his mind. Head games are terrible creatures. Demons of destruction… and we open the door for them every time.   
  
***  
  
"You seem rather defensive of him. If I didn't know any better… I'd say you have a personal bias in this, Lon."   
  
His friend sighed, as John's tone had been almost accusing. It was well after midnight and they had finally reached the door of his slanted shanty (or what was left of it) and he really didn't want to open a fresh can. "Listen, John… I told you… I got to know Wiggins better on that last voyage. He's a decent bloke, ok?"  
  
"How'd you get to know him? Why won't you tell me anything about the voyage? Damn it… I'm only looking at a few pieces of the puzzle here… how can anyone expect me to make sound judgments?"  
  
"I think you judge all together too much." Lon muttered under his breath.  
  
"What?" Smith hadn't caught it.  
  
"Nothing. I… well, John… I've told you all that needs telling at this point. The rest is all useless detail."  
  
"You've been suspiciously sketchy about all this, Lon. You won't even hint where the fountain is. How could you possibly expect me to believe you don't know or don't remember. I'm not Wiggins, blast you!"  
  
Lon sighed. "John… I haven't felt like talking. I suppose everything will come out in due time. Besides, you said yourself, it's best you don't know these things. The secret has to die. You wouldn't listen to Wiggins on the issue - don't expect me to overflow with information."  
  
Smith, in a moment of wanting to win an argument for the sake of itself, challenged: "Then maybe I'll just dig up the Captain's logs and learn all I want to know for myself. True and unabridged."  
  
***  
  
Wiggins lay, staring at the illuminated ceiling. He supposed he should blow out the dying candle and get some sleep… but the candle light was so soothing. Alone, deep in thought, he's found himself again. Smith was wrong. It was plain and simple. Smith was wrong. The tricks his mind had been playing lately were like poison and it was time to metaphorically bleed them out.   
  
He understood his actions now and realized there wasn't a drop of hypocrisy in them. Ratcliffe was his first master, the charming count came second. When one served their master… it was occasionally necessary to play a part in their best interest. He hadn't betrayed Ratcliffe or Wexford-Smyth yet and never would.   
  
He sighed, thinking of his original master, alone in the darkness of imprisonment. He watched the light dance on the walls and remembered how much the Governor had subconsciously enjoyed candlelight himself. The man had left all his writing to evenings by firelight… the illumination charming, possessing the illusion of warm comfort. Fire could be so cruel though. When would mankind learn?  
  
As he thought of his master… he realized a more loyal servant wouldn't have taken the position with Wexford-Smyth. He realized a more loyal servant wouldn't have rested day or night, constantly visiting the prison, until his master was safe again. He shook his head. He was second guessing himself again! He dug to find himself again and there he was, as rational and comforting as candlelight. A servant's duties were reasonable… that concept was unreasonable. Or was it? No, visiting his master in prison to confirm loyalty wasn't unreasonable. He suddenly worried Ratcliffe doubted him.   
  
*You've got nothing to prove…* Smith's poison haunted him.   
  
However, tonight he would bleed himself of poison, of sickness… for the second guessing had gotten the better of him. He rose and started to slip into clothes. Though it was the darkest point of the morning, he had to see the Governor immediately. He had to make sure they had an understanding. He was trying and the man had to know. He had to see his servant hadn't forsaken him. The code was unbroken. He hadn't seen Ratcliffe since he'd been hauled from court. Smith was right about one thing at least, all those who looked at him that way were right - he WAS stupid. Why hadn't he visited? Why? What good is remaining loyal if no one knows?   
  
***  
  
A/N:   
  
Hm… I think I've explained all the contradictions. I hope Wiggins fans don't get up in arms cause I used the word 'unattractive'… hey - it's how the guy felt about himself. Not the narrator. Anyway, these chapter titles are terrible. How unlike me. This story lacks solid symbolism! That's my problem right there. (I love the actual story title though.) I hope people are getting the messages in this warped work. It's very anti-superficial… though I make them all beautiful. AH! BTW, pardon the spelling and grammar errors. I didn't edit this! *ramble, ramble* 


	4. Thanks, Marco

WHERE PONCE DE LEON FAILED…  
  
Chapter Four: Thanks, Marco.   
  
Disclaimer: All Pocahontas characters belong to Disney. Other characters are either historical figures (who have no copyright, Lord be praised) or belong to me. BTW, silly me. Here I go and mention the historian as mine and forget all about Count Wexford-Smyth. Yes, he's fictional and belongs to me. (He's cute, cheerful and rich - how could he NOT be mine? ^_^ J/K)  
  
A/N: Alright, alright. John Smith is growing on me… He's kinda cool. Hm… I must be one of the only Ratcliffe fans out there. It's all David Ogden Stiers, people. He did Wiggins too! That guy is cool. M*A*S*H is great. Did you know he voiced Cogsworth in BatB? ^_^ Also, I prefer villians and find those 'arrogant, ignorant leader' character types amusing. Secondly, I think Wiggins rocks. Tie between Wiggins and Ratcliffe.   
  
***  
  
The world was a feverish, unbearable blur - dark with nothing to focus on save the heat, rising steady and strong. Gradually the humid haze merged into a collage of earthy tones. As the heat rose… clarity heightened and before long green was prominent, the image coming. Spinning, shill cries in the distance… a whispering chant… Eventually, the pressure building, an outline of jungle vegetation defined…  
  
As he whirled… the sudden light, sounds and searing heat were overwhelming. A soft hissing was on the air and sweat slid down his frightening face. The snake. He stumbled and hit the ground, panicked… the hissing persisted… closer… and closer still…  
  
***  
  
The Governor lay listening to the gentle hissing until it faded from existence entirely. For several moments - the heat still present, but no longer murderous - he stared into haze…  
  
He pulled together enough solid sense to know he'd been dreaming. No matter what happened now… his 'adventure' following Kortez's shadow would trouble him… and not even sleep could save him. That was the one comfort in being sentenced to death… He wouldn't have to live with the memories of his disastrous life any longer. In fact, he would even have to live his disastrous life any longer.   
  
Suddenly, voices returned, only these weren't threatening. They seemed indifferent and unaware of his presence. Two thick accents… coming closer. Ratcliffe could feel warm fabrics and what could only be sand. Confused, he waited for his eyes to focus and then reality slapped him across the face.   
  
He was in a tent. Lying in a bed of rags… on hot sand.   
  
Slowly, with great pain, the Governor sat up. He was soaked from end to end with sticky sweat… though the heat was nothing compared to what it had been in his dream. Why was he not in prison? Where was he? He rubbed his eyes and blinked furiously against the hot air. There was no mistake. He was in a tent upon sand.   
  
He listened to the voices a while longer, hearing their actual conversation now. In hushed tones they were planning to slip away while someone slept. They planned to get supplies, especially medicines. The two men were clearly middle aged Italians, old hands at travel.   
  
Gathering what little courage he had… the Governor slipped from his sheets, crawling weakly across the burning sand. He carefully opened his tent flap a crack to glance about… yet, all he saw aside from bright blue sky was… two disapproving Italians. They had been watching his tent carefully and couldn't miss the eye peeking out. It appeared he was the sleeping fool they wished to deceive.  
  
"Oh… uh… hello…" he chuckled nervously, opening the flap entirely now. He could see the two men were packing camels for a short voyage. Camels? After a double take Ratcliffe realized he was staring out into endless desert. Where the hell WAS he?  
  
After an uncomfortable silence, the younger man atop his camel smiled. "Marco! How are you?" His smile was clearly of the deceiving kind. The two wished to slip away and leave him behind.   
  
"Wha-"  
  
The younger traveler sighed, "Oh, Marco… we should have known we couldn't trick you. We're making another supply run."  
  
Almost before he could finish his sentence, the older Italian's harsh tones scolded, "Marco! Why are you out of bed? Go back to sleep!"  
  
"I…" Ratcliffe couldn't answer. What on God's green earth was…  
  
"Don't even start…" the older man continued, "You are in no condition to accompany us. You know better. You almost died the last time this took you in Kashgar. We can't play games! Now, get back into that bed and…"  
  
"Nicolo…" the younger tried to pacify his brother. The pair were clearly related, the resemblance obvious.   
  
"Don't start. He's not leaving that tent until he's well. That means NO fever. Marco, go back to bed. I'm not going to lose you arguing over a supply run."  
  
"Oh really, Nic…" his brother found him melodramatic.   
  
"But-" Ratcliffe trailed off. Who were these men? Who was Marco? Why wouldn't they let him get a word in!?  
  
"No, buts…" the strict Nicolo mounted his camel. "I'm sorry, Marco, you can't go with us today. Maybe next time. You've got to be in top shape - you know that. Sickness is serious, especially in these hellish conditions."  
  
"Fever?" the Governor now understood the feverish feeling genuine. It had began in his sleep and carried on into reality, it seemed. The intense heat… the feverish feeling… the sweat… it all came together.   
  
Nicolo rolled his eyes. Ratcliffe was unfamiliar with the man's body language… so he was unsure what this indicated. "Marco, I'm your father. I know what's best for you. Now, stop-"  
  
"Father?!" Ratcliffe spat in shock. This was too much!  
  
"Oh Lord, Maffeo… he's still delirious. He can't even remember…"  
  
Ratcliffe had finally had enough. "Who ARE you people? Where the hell are we? How did I get here? Why are you calling me Marco?" The Governor tossed aside all composure. He hadn't the slightest grasp as to what was happening and needed answers fast. He rose slowly, on shaky legs… but fell, catching himself with his hand. Panicked, he realized the youthful, tan hand wasn't his own. He cried out and started checking himself… and sure enough, he wasn't either form of John Ratcliffe. He was an Italian youth.   
  
"Dear Lord…" Nicolo reared his camel slight in surprise.  
  
"Maybe we shouldn't go." Maffeo shifted uneasily in his saddle. "He's never been this bad before."  
  
"Nonsense. I've seen him much worse. Besides, we have no choice. He needs his medicine and we need food and water."  
  
As the two siblings argued over the importance of their trip… the inner heat within the Governor started to rise again. The stress and confusion was bringing about a second bout of blur. The world sizzled in haze and he lost himself in it. Absolutely delirious.   
  
"I'm telling you, Nic, we-" Both men froze and turned to 'Marco'…  
  
He was chuckling to himself, a strange expression on his face. Perhaps he was delirious, perhaps he was going mad… regardless, his chuckle rose into a laugh… and his laugh grew loud and tearful. He laughed until he was screaming and crying. Finally, he hit the eye of the storm and cried quietly to himself, unaware of their existence.   
  
Nicolo watched, more concerned than ever. "We have no choice, brother. We've got to get my son medicine immediately. He's losing himself to whatever the hell he's got. These blasted eastern empires and their illnesses! Their foreign to us, how can we be expected…"   
  
Maffeo motioned to his older brother that he was losing himself in ramble, obviously worried. Nicolo never cursed his beloved East. This was serious. "Very well. We should leave several servants to care for him. He's… he's frightening me, Nic."   
  
Ratcliffe started to chuckle slightly again, still quite delirious. "Good Lord…" he managed to wheeze through his laughter, "It's… it's… all a ridiculous dream…"   
  
The two travelers exchanged glances. However, after a moment, Ratcliffe had settled… the blur slipping away and leaving him in peace. The blinding desert sun felt cool compared to the battle he'd just fought. He sat, his cheeks still wet from tears, thinking. What was happening to him?   
  
Relieved the fit had passed, Nicolo snorted. "And you said he'd be over it in a few days… He's worse than ever, Feo. What did I tell you?"  
  
Uncle Maffeo sighed, admitting defeat. As Nicolo started out, he called back, "We'll be back before sundown, son. Take in lots of water and please sleep… I'm worried about you…"  
  
Ratcliffe sighed, "Who am I?"  
  
Nicolo stopped and was silent for a moment, before replying with a sad sensitivity that was surprising, "You're my son. My son Marco. Despite how I carry on… I love you. Please don't die on me like your mother." Nicolo was a father Ratcliffe would have benefited from actually having. Strong, strict… yet under it all caring.   
  
An awkward silence fell over the three and Nicolo cleared his throat before resuming his harsher tone, "And no more laughing. That's the worse thing you could do to yourself right now, Marc. If you keep carrying on you'll die, you silly fool. Go to sleep. Sleep is your only weapon until we return. Understand?" The moment of weakness was over and now had to be compensated for. He was clearly the type of father who insulted half heartedly, no hurt meant. He just couldn't express himself well.   
  
Ratcliffe, however, was not analyzing Nicolo's fathering technique. He was still on the verge of delirium. He wiped laughter's tears from his eyes and in a mocking tone replied, "Yes, yes, very good. Bring some champagne and lovely desert dancers back while your at it, gentlemen…"   
  
Nicolo rolled his eyes again and was off, "Sleep, Marco. Good bye."  
  
Maffeo remained a moment, looking sympathetic, "I'm sorry, Marco. I know how eager you are to hit the trail. Maybe later on in the week. Just get your rest. I'm sure the Tac Tac will come up with a cure for you."  
  
The fever lashed back hard and the Governor's head was spinning in blur. Missing most of what the man said, he muttered through the haze, "Charmed, I'm sure." The heat was numbing and his tongue slipping.   
  
His uncle shook his head, confused by the response and then clicked his reigns with a sharp vocal command. The camel stumbled to a start, "God bless you, Marc. Get better." He hurried to catch Nicolo and soon both were out of sight.   
  
'Marco' sat and stared at the camel prints in the sand until a kind, yet firm voice, approached from his left, "Marco… go to bed…"  
  
The Governor chuckled a little, but was sincerely sleepy. He slipped back into his blankets, burning and soaked with sweat… convulsions were coming…  
  
"Governor…"  
  
***  
  
"Governor…"  
  
Sweat sliding down his perfect brow, the youth's eye lids trembled for a moment… until they fluttered open, dark and dazed. Confused, he glanced left and right. The freezing jail cell felt absolutely wonderful. Heaven on earth, he was certain.  
  
"Governor, are you alright?"  
  
The voice was familiar… but the haze of delirium had failed to leave him. He must have been hallucinating! Trembling and struggling to breath in the confusion and blur the Governor watched the world spin. The cold was wonderful, though it helped little. He was sweating, his breath burning. The cold air was surely rippling with steam.   
  
Thunder rumbled in the distance and the corridor lit with lightning. There, hiding in the shadows was a familiar boy.   
  
"Have you returned with my medicine, Nicolo?" the dazed Governor whispered sadly, barely audible. "… Father… I think I'm dying…"   
  
Wiggins, sitting patiently on the other side of the bars, missed most of the mutterings… but picked up on the word dying. "Nonsense, sir." He assured quietly. "You have a fever. Nothing a cold, damp cloth and lots of ice water can't bring down." However, the attendant had little medical experience and had only seen two or three fevers in his life. In all cases he'd heard of… death and brain damage had been the outcomes.   
  
Ratcliffe, in the body of a raven Adonis, was red and sweaty with heat. His clothes were soaked and he was surely breathing fire - yet, he was shivering as though freezing. Terrible signs. Wiggins continued to hold cold clothes to the roasting flesh... but in vain. The Governor was fading deeper in delirium and there was nothing he could do. The guards wouldn't care and if he notified them he'd find himself in a neighbouring cell for sneaking in.  
  
He hadn't swam through the filthy, infested sewers for an hour to arrive in time to see the man die! Refusing to give, Wiggins pressed ice water to his master's lips… unfortunately… more went down the outside of the burning throat than the inside.   
  
"Governor? … Governor?"  
  
***  
  
Smith studied a thick book that smelt of long candlelit writings on the sea and in the rain forest - or so his explorer's heart imagined. Initially, he'd flipped through for useful information, but through reading bits and pieces he had found himself admiring the man's writing. It was brilliant! He'd decided to start from the very beginning and read straight through. It was almost as though he was reading a really good book. A book packed with all the elements of drama, adventure, mystery and everything else he held dear. The neat and original handwriting implied an author of much character. The captain of the voyage was a fellow he'd soon have to meet.   
  
John sipped his rum and flipped to a fresh entry. Absorbed in the text… the writing made him feel as though he was right there in the room with Ratcliffe and Wiggins…  
  
***  
  
"Blasted sun… blinding and too warm…" a voice that could only belong to Governor John Ratcliffe muttered to himself. He was leaning over his desk, attempting to write letters, though it hard to concentrate in the bright morning light. He unfortunately needed the frame of mind only flames could provide at night. He was restless and he felt like grumbling to Wiggins, as usual. "You know, Wiggins… I think they're trying to kill me." He called to his servant, who was in the next room.  
  
"Ya, and when did you come to that startling revelation?" Wiggins muttered to himself, so soft it was almost inaudible. He was riffling through one of the Governor's cluttered drawers in search of documents.  
  
"Who do you suppose we'll encounter first? Aztecs and Spaniards?" Ratcliffe asked bitterly. After a moment he added, "Have you not found that map yet?"  
  
Wiggins gave a sharp, rolling eye expression of great frustration. He closed the drawer harder than necessary and moved on to the next one. He skimmed until he hit a book. Pulling it out to put it back on the shelf he glanced at the title with indifference - 'The Travels of Marco Polo.' Wiggins froze. The hidden book explained so much about what made Ratcliffe… Ratcliffe.   
  
"Wiggins?" the Governor called in his loud and pompous. Wiggins, distracted, didn't answer. He was flipping through the book. This particular version had fascinating maps and illustrations. The chapter titles were particularly grabbing. From what the educated attendant recalled… Polo had been a prisoner of war for three years. A fellow prisoner had convinced him dictate his tales and they were made into an book. An autobiography in some senses, he supposed.   
  
The treasures of a New World and the princely successes of Marco Polo had served as the inspiration for countless Europeans. Copies of the famous book 'The Curious and Remarkable Voyages and Travels of Marco Polo' (eventually shortened for obvious reasons) had found their way into almost every single country in Europe! Countless cultures now searched the New World for riches and a passage to Polo's famous China. Thanks to the legendary explorer they'd went to Virginia and would soon knock on death's door - which would probably speak Spanish. Yes, Wiggins certainly owed his fate to the traveler's influence. "Thank you, Marco Polo." He muttered sarcastically, snapping the book shut.   
  
Hesitating, he wondered if he should slip it back in the drawer and turn a blind eye. He had a feeling the Governor was hiding the book out of pride and wouldn't like him knowing about it (which having it appear on the shelf would be an instant indication of).   
  
"Wiggins?" the Governor called, this time in a very different tone. A sad tone that struck a nerve of pity. Wiggins hid the book under all the drawer's documents again. The poor man hadn't a friend in the world and was being shipped off to the Spaniards to be slain - it was the least he could do. The entire mess was bringing about a change in Ratcliffe. A sad, vulnerable change.  
  
Hitting the last drawer he found the map on top, almost smiling at him. He pulled it out and found the bundle of forms and contracts the Governor had been asking for earlier underneath. Pleased with his good fortune, Wiggins briskly entered the next room. "Sorry, Governor, you were saying?" he placed the information before his master.  
  
Ratcliffe skimmed over what was there, distant, obviously thinking. He eventually added a quiet 'thank you' that set Wiggins free. However, instead of dismissing himself… the servant watched for a moment. The Governor, lost in his reading, absently tapped his knee. When nothing happened he glanced into the corner of the room. Upon finding it empty he realized his error and returned to his work, sadder still, unaware anyone was watching.   
  
Wiggins left. It was just too sad. He could safely say he'd seen a broken man now. It was all so pathetic! Everyone wanted Ratcliffe dead and now he was just coasting about… hated, ugly and all alone, waiting for his inevitable end. He had nothing. He didn't even have his DOG anymore.   
  
So much for the dreams of Marco Polo…   
  
***  
  
Smith jerked away from the desk, startled. How?! What the hell had just happened? It was almost as though he'd daydreamed the text in detail. The images hadn't appeared inside his head, but before his eyes. How…   
  
Hands still trembling, he closed the book. Heart racing, Smith tried to piece things together. Somehow the scene in the journal had come alive before his eyes - only with extras. All sorts of dialogue that hadn't existed in the actual writing had flashed before his frightened eyes. The scene had been written with focus on Ratcliffe… it had appeared before him preferring Wiggins. It was all so real. Lately, visions he had no control over were periodically flashing before his eyes. Three in three days. What could they possibly be? Premonitions could be ruled out, as they tended to portray the PAST of others… not the future.  
  
John gave a trembling sigh and recapped his visions. The first had been in Lon's shack. He'd seen the jungle… with a horrible skeleton hanging at eye level from the trees…   
  
"John!" a booming accent entered the room.  
  
Startled, Smith jumped, still shaken from the hallucination.   
  
"Easy, Smith. Nerves going in your old age, are they?"  
  
Smith turned slowly, recognizing the voice. A large, dark grin missing greeted him. Missing a few teeth with dark eyes and hair, the visitor stood in the doorway, smilingly cynical. Captain Smith calmed instantly, returning the beam. Laughing, he hugged the other man, slapping his back.   
  
"Ben!"  
  
***  
  
A/N: Well, what's everybody think? Hate it? Please review. 


	5. Return To Eden

WHERE PONCE DE LEON FAILED  
  
Chapter Five: Return to Eden  
  
***  
  
Disclaimer: Walt Disney owns most. I own some. The rest is literally history…  
  
A/N: Sorry, plot advancement, therefore fast-paced… the closing half of this chapter is more like film than literature. This chapter focuses on John, Lon and Ben. BTW, I have a Pocahontas "Where is Waldo" sort of book that has the England/docks scene in it. You have to find John, Ben, Lon, Ratcliffe, Wiggins… a guy named Hal… ANYWAY, I only mention this… because it shows Ben saying goodbye to a lady. In this work, I'll assume it's his wife.   
  
***  
  
The smog gave the streets a chilling, mysterious air… it was four in the morning and not a soul was in site, nor a lamp lit. A small gray cat scurried down a lane, pausing for a moment to clean it's head and then was gone. For a moment, all was perfectly still and silent…   
  
Suddenly, the serenity was shattered by loud banging. On a small, unpleasant street a tired, frustrated man urgently needed a word with a friend. He continued to pound the shanty's only door, until his patience left him. "Lon!" … "Lon, wake up!" … "LON! Open-" John Smith nearly slammed a yawning Lon in the face as the door opened.  
  
"About time…" Smith was relieved. "Let me in. We've got to talk."  
  
"You smell like…"  
  
"Never mind. It's a long story. Just listen. I have two very important things to discuss with you…"  
  
"Can't it wait 'til I'm awake?" Lon nearly whined, sitting down.   
  
John, though eager, noted his friend actually had a sturdy table and chair now. In fact, the abandoned shack had cleaned nicely. Lon had even fixed the door and window. That's when it hit…  
  
"Lon… why are you working on this place?" he asked uneasily. "I was under the impression you were only crashing here a few nights until you found work. You realize-  
  
Lon, sounding sleepy, rubbed his face to waken, "…no one knows my face… can't get any work…"  
  
"What?"  
  
Lon, tired and therefore irritable, nearly snapped, "My name and face don't match these days, John. Everyone thinks I'm crazy, or worse, lying. I can't get work! Looks like this shack-"  
  
"No, no, no." John interrupted quickly. "You can't live here, Lon. You're a squatter. You're going to get caught and end up in prison right next to Ratcliffe. Why don't you just change your name and-"  
  
"Start all over? Toss the last twenty years aside? John! I've got a reputation under this name. People know to hire Lon. If I change my name to Tim or Chris, I've got no history. No experience. No references. No nothing. Those names could start as cabin boys! I'm not going to be a middle aged cabin boy workin' for scraps 'a food! Who'd hire one 'a those, anyway?!"  
  
"Lon, please lower your voice…" John thought he caught a glimpse of someone outside the window. "Now, please… we'll worry about you're problems later. Right now, we've got to worry about mine."  
  
"We're always worryin' about your problems…" Lon muttered half-heartedly, rubbing his face again. Only half of him wanted to argue, the other half wanted to sleep.  
  
John ignored him and continued, now whispering, "Firstly, I need to speak with the Captain of your last voyage. I was reading his log today and something unbelievable happened. I won't go into details… but… I'm sure he'll have information."  
  
"Captain Ellington? The man scarcely knows his toes from his top…"   
  
"Lon…" Smith was somehow offended. "You've obviously never read the man's writing. He's brilliant."  
  
"AH! So you come out here and wake me up at this hour to find out how to contact some guy, just outta admiration? John! You won't listen to my problems-"  
  
"Whisper." John covered his mouth. "And it's more than that, thank you. I just can't explain right now. Just tell me where to find him."  
  
"I haven't a clue!" Lon's whisper hissed when his mouth was free. "Try the tavern we were at last week. He's often there, I understand."  
  
"Right. Next order of business: Ben."  
  
"Our Ben?"  
  
"Our Ben. He's back."  
  
"That's great!"   
  
"SHHHH…" John hissed, glanced out the window, certain he'd seen someone earlier. "He showed up at my place earlier tonight, or last night, whatever. The point is - he's back and as wonderful as it is to have him in London, only tales of the fountain have lured him here. He's just the sort to lose his head over the eternal youth thing. As great a guy as he is… you have to admit, he's a little greedy."   
  
"What are you saying?"  
  
"We've got to be careful. Ben's just the sort to want to live forever. I'll bet he's drilling people for information even as we speak-"  
  
***  
  
Ben, drunk as anything, was stumbling about Lon's street. After finding John at home, they'd hit a tavern… but John had seemed distracted and odd all night, leaving early with an obvious excuse. Ben, drunk and feeling slighted had brashly decided to follow him, but being impaired, had missed which house the captain had ducked into.  
  
He continued glancing into windows… but saw only darkness. Smith, however, had caught a glimpse of him and was now more paranoid than ever…  
  
***  
  
"Ben has been my friend for years, John. He may be a little greedy, but he's not selfish. I don't understand why you're so paranoid about the fountain. The secret dies with us. He's one of us. If it has to die with Ben too, that's fine. He's trustworthy."   
  
"Don't you understand? You made a mistake telling the truth to even ME. I'M not trustworthy. I think about the fountain day and night now! I don't want Ben to go through this nightmare too. We can't let anyone else - even him - find out."  
  
"Well, when you put it like that… I suppose it is quite the burden to bare. Maybe sparing him from it all would be better. He'd only drive himself mad knowing the truth. And you know, he just might crack."  
  
"I just might crack." John muttered turning away. As though realizing something, he turned back. "Wait a second - Ben can't see you. He'll notice the difference. I mean, you're living proof!"  
  
"What?! You can't seriously expect me never to speak to anyone I've ever known prior to the fountain… just to keep the secret…"  
  
"Lon, promise you won't just walk up to old friends like you walked up to me! I only believe because I've seen YOU! You… you… have to realize… this secret is bigger than you. It's bigger than anyone. This fountain secret has to be shut down. If someone actually tries to harness it's power… the world as we know it will…"  
  
"Stop being so melodramatic, John. You act as though the world would end just because the highest bidder can live forever."  
  
"I have a feeling many bidders will live forever. In fact, maybe… too many people will live forever. When in reality, Lon, NO ONE is suppose to live forever. It's wrong. Not meant to be. Against the plan…"  
  
"Who's plan, John? God's? Who put the fountain there? Satan? … Ever stop and think maybe God himself made the water. Maybe this IS part of the plan. Just maybe… just maybe… someone found Eden?"  
  
The words frightened John - the image of the skeleton hanging in the jungle flashed before his eyes. "That's not Eden, Lon. Believe me. I don't know about your religious beliefs, my friend… but I feel we fell from grace… and you can't get back there in this life. Only the next."  
  
"I'm not an educated man, John… but I remember my Bible. The tree of eternal life apparently still exists. It's guarded by a powerful angels and a sword of fire."  
  
John snorted. "Everyone interprets the Bible differently, Lon. You can't always take things literally. I think a lot of it may be symbolism. It may have a deeper meaning. After all, Jesus always used parables to teach people. One had to figure out what the symbolism meant to learn the lesson. Maybe it's all parables… One big parable."  
  
"Now, you didn't come here to discuss religion, John. You came here to figure out where Captain Ellington could be found and to warn me to keep away from Ben-"   
  
"And then you argued the fountain might be part of man's destiny. I disagree. I think it'll destroy us, Lon. We have to keep the secret. Which means an enormous sacrifice on your part. An enormous sacrifice for all involved, especially those who drank…"  
  
Silence fell and after a moment Lon sighed, "Now I finally understand why the boys did what the did…"  
  
"What?" Smith didn't follow.  
  
"Never mind, John. You've made your point loud and clear. For the greater good, I'll do as you ask. Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to go back to bed…" Lon rose, sounding sad, almost defeated.  
  
"Thank you, Lon. It really is for the best… I'm sure we'll think of something for you, though. I-"  
  
"Good night, John." Lon repeated, louder, somewhat irritated as he opened the door.  
  
There stood Ben.  
  
"Smith!" the brunette stumbled into the room. "Thought you could run off and have adventures without ol' Ben, eh? Think again, lad! Think again!"   
  
John and Lon exchanged expressions of panic. Unfortunately, Ben reacted first, turning to Lon. "You know, fella'… you remind me of me ol' mate, Lon. A real-"  
  
"Alright, Ben!" Smith started hurriedly, wrapping his arm around the burly man's shoulders and turning him around. "We'd better get you checked in somewhere so you can sleep this off."  
  
"Hell with that!" Ben started to struggle. "The night's young, John! We got catchin' up to do. There's songs to sing! Women to chase-"  
  
"You're wife wouldn't like that." John pulled him outside. "Now, you're quite drunk - even for you. Stop babbling and start walking. We've got to get you to a-"  
  
"Tavern!" Ben shouted. "The night is-"  
  
"Over." It was John's turn to interrupt. "It's almost time for the workin' man to rise, you fool. Now, stop being difficult."  
  
Lon watched them struggle down the street and then sadly turned back into his new home, slowly closing the door…  
  
***  
  
"That was too close." Smith muttered for the fourth time that sitting. He and Lon were in the Black Cauldron, drinking a bit before they asked about Captain Albert Ellington.   
  
Lon didn't answer - they'd talked the thing to death. He sighed and signaled the barkeep. "Have you seen Al Ellington 'round these parts, pal?"  
  
The bartender thought for a moment and then called to a fellow across the room, "Say, Sam - has you're mate Ally been 'round here lately?"  
  
"Nah. He's too good for the likes of me and the Cauldron now, Bill. Ever since he came home from that voyage filthy rich. He looks like a million bucks and acts like it too. Right out snob he is now."   
  
"There's yer answer, fella." The barkeep turned to Lon.   
  
John failed to notice Lon's expression darken as he turned to the scruffy man called Sam, "You wouldn't know where Ellington lives, would you?"  
  
"I know his old place. Just over on Simcoe. I think it's 184. He's too good for that shit house now, though. Won't catch him there, no sir."  
  
***  
  
"Excuse me, Madam…" John stopped a middle aged woman locking up 184 Simcoe Street. The house was decent, not the outhouse predicted. However, it had been cleared out and the good lady before him held the last box of odds and ends left over from the move.  
  
"Yes, sir." She was polite, but obviously in a hurry.  
  
"Did Captain Ellington live here once?"  
  
"Just moved out, sir." She headed to the street. "I'm just grabbing the last of his things. I'm one of his new household. If you're looking for him, he just bought a manor outside the city." She climbed into a carriage and started to leave.  
  
Smith, bold as ever, leapt onto the side of the carriage. The driver stopped. "Mind if we join you? We need to speak with him urgently."  
  
***  
  
"And who be you, boys?" a man who resembled a very well dressed pirate greeted them from the other side of a large, expensive desk.   
  
"I'm Captain John Smith and this is-"  
  
"THE John Smith!" the other sat bolt upright, amazed.  
  
"Um, yes."  
  
"It's an honour, lad. A great honour! How could I be of service to the famous John Smith?"  
  
"Well, I have some questions for you about your last voyage to the rainforests of-"  
  
The man's expression darkened. His accent came out thick as he stood, "Sorry, lad, I have nothing to say about that trip. Nothing at all. Now, I'm sure-"  
  
"We know about the fountain." Smith leaned over the desk.  
  
Ally was speechless.  
  
"Do you recognize my friend, Lon?" Smith motioned to his associate, who up until that moment had been ignored.  
  
"Well, raise the jolly roger…" the glittering Captain sounded very uneasy. "Lon, lad… what brings ya here?"  
  
Lon's tone expression and tone were quite different. They seemed to suppress snarls, caustic and bitter. "Well, Captain… I see you're doing quite well since we got back…"   
  
The other's expression hardened again. "Get out."  
  
***  
  
"I didn't even get to ask him about the journal…" John sighed, his blond head leaning back against a tree trunk. They were resting, having to walk to the nearest town and hitch a ride to London. "You know so much more than you're letting on, Lon. What the hell was that about?"  
  
Lon avoided the question. Instead, he was breaking sticks and uprooting grass, his expression still hard and dark. "I still can't understand why you admire him so much. He's so-"  
  
Smith pulled out the log. "Just read his writing, Lon. He's amazing. I could forgive someone like this for anything. He speaks to my mind like no one else. He understands."  
  
When Lon didn't answer, John turned to him, "I know it sounds melodramatic, but… Lon? What's wrong?"  
  
Lon was staring at the journal, eyes wide.  
  
"What's wrong?" John repeated, concerned.  
  
"That not his book, John! Ellington didn't write that!"  
  
"What? … I just assumed- who wrote it?"  
  
"Ratcliffe." 


	6. The Weakest of the Strong

WHERE PONCE DE LEON FAILED…  
  
Chapter Six: The Weakest of the Strong  
  
***  
  
A steady, familiar beat filled his ears. Sandals hit the ground in unison, marching to the beat. Authority. Perfection. Gold flashing everywhere… red plumes… Suddenly, strict trumpets started in… large curved shields… metallic shine in all directions… marching…  
  
Confused and blinking, the Governor sat on a beautiful white stallion, glittering with gold. Gold. He finally had gold. He watched the soldiers march on and on beside him, an endless amount of lethal, loyal men. Their expressions were cold, strong… disciplined…   
  
The trumpets and drums continued, the men were moving in unison, twirling their javelin, gladius and shields together - perfectly choreographed. Suddenly, gold blended to silver… silver armor with blue plume now marched together - the image of excellence. With precision, such exactness, the men marched, almost dancing - synchronized. He tried to blend in and look confident march-riding beside the troops. He was obviously a figure of authority…  
  
Then it came…  
  
"Hail Caesar! Hail Caesar!" the crowd was chanting with love, loyalty and admiration. "Hail Caesar!"  
  
Growing upset, Ratcliffe reared his horse slightly. Caesar and the spoils of war were coming behind him. How the people cheered… It was too much. He turned his horse around, attempting to leave… but realized he couldn't. The parade was advancing strongly onward… the centurion on the next horse pressed forward - a traffic jam starting. To his left, the marching legioneers… to his right, the excited citizens. He was trapped and hopelessly backwards.   
  
Pressure… pressure… He was trapped!  
  
"Marcy!" the centurion trying not run into him, making the jam worse. The hold-up starting to affect the soldiers on foot… and the pressure built. His horse, spooked and unable to walk backwards, started crying out. Once one panics, all panic. The horses started screeching. His bucked, striking his friend's horse hard. The golden soldier was hurled from his steed.  
  
The crowd began to panic, mob-like. Like steeds, once one panics, all panic. They started shouting and trying to act. The mass of frightened citizens heightened in panic… ready to burst… "Something's wrong!" … "Caesar! Save Caesar!" "What's going on?" … "What's wrong?" … "Caesar!"   
  
All hell broke lose. The soldiers disarrayed, the horses started escaping and the people afraid…   
  
In the chaos, the Governor abandoned his horse and ran into the confused crowd. He rushed down an ally until he came to a clearing - there a melancholy fountain waited. The crowd faded away and all he could hear was the trickling waters of the sad fountain.   
  
Miserable, he started into the beautiful water… it rippled gently… but his reflection was clear. He was in his young, raven Adonis form… only, a high-ranked officer of the Roman Legions. He wore glistening gold… and the largest, most beautiful red plume possible. It wasn't really feather-like… but certainly flame-like, sharp edged plume. He was the image of power. The image of glory!   
  
For hours he sat staring at himself in the fountain's water. Lost in the trickling sound and the beauty of himself. The beauty of Rome. The power and glory. He stared mindlessly… all thoughts fading away… Lost in the fountain…  
  
"Marcellus!"   
  
Startled, he nearly leapt from his skin. He turned and saw a silver and blue praetorian standing silently behind. How long had he been there? The golden centurion cleared his throat, ashamed. He cast his eyes down.  
  
"Marce…"  
  
***  
  
Lightening startled the Governor from his hallucination. Red and soaked with sweat, the young man lay on the cold floor… panting… That wasn't Rome. That panicked, disarrayed parade wasn't ancient Rome. What had happened?   
  
The fountain…  
  
And then the singing returned. Beautiful, angelic singing… gently distracting him from his pain… The voice of a lovely cherub… soothed, his fever started to fade…   
  
***  
  
As the rain continued over London… John sighed… flipping aimlessly through the journal… now blind to the text. He closed his eyes suddenly, as though pained… water dripped from his hair, smearing the ink.  
  
"Jesus spoke with symbolism…" he sighed, closing the book.  
  
Suddenly, Lon burst through the door. "John!" he sounded, furious. "The jury's been picked and you'll NEVER guess who bribed himself onto it!"  
  
***  
  
"Governor?" Wiggins called timidly through cold bars. He was answered by silence. Swallowing, the steward tried again… "Governor?"  
  
Ratcliffe sighed, "The trial is tomorrow, Wiggins. Tomorrow…"  
  
"I know, sir. That's why I'm here. I-"  
  
"There going to hang me, I know it…"  
  
Wiggins brushed a strand of sparkling red-brown hair from his aqua eyes, determined to cheer his former master. "Sir, do you recall the day you calmed down and started thinking logically about your discovery?"  
  
Ratcliffe looked up, confused, "What?"  
  
"You were grateful. Very grateful. Do you remember what you told me, sir?"  
  
"Wiggins, I'm dying…" Ratcliffe sighed.  
  
"You told me for the first time in your life… you believed in God. There had to a God. All your dreams were finally coming true. Have you lost faith so soon?"   
  
Ratcliffe sighed, "Of course not. I still believe in God, Wiggins. He makes sense more than ever now. God is punishing me."  
  
***  
  
Ally Ellington smiled charmingly to the crowd as he entered the courthouse. Dressed in his best, he still looked like a pirate. It was his style. He wore an enormous golden earring in his left ear… and a black and silver pirate cap. A sword at his side, he waved like a king… taking his time…  
  
Lon and John watched from mid-crowd, Lon grumbling under his breath.   
  
"Naturally, he wants Ratcliffe dead. He'd be finished if anyone knew the truth. He'd be the one hanging, John. He'll have Ratcliffe done away with… and then me…"   
  
"What are-"  
  
"Never mind, never mind…" Lon spoke quickly. "Here he comes!"   
  
Sure enough, the crowd began to boo as the notorious Governor Ratcliffe (whom everyone save John, Lon and Ally Ellington, thought a fraud) was lead into court…   
  
***  
  
The hisses and boos were overwhelming. The Governor stumbled… everywhere he looked furious citizens wanted him dead. For once in his life he was innocent… and naturally, no one believed…  
  
"Hang the impostor!" people started screaming. "Hang him dead!"  
  
Ratcliffe cringed, having begged his lawyer moments earlier: "Anything, but the gallows. Anything! Burn me, shoot me… ANYTHING… drown me, for God's sake… just NOT the gallows!" He was terrified of hanging…  
  
Eyes darting everywhere… fever returning… Ratcliffe was reminded of the panicked Roman crowd. The citizens - just a mindless mob. A fickle, mindless mob… One moment they were cheering… the next, screaming for blood…   
  
***  
  
"Kill the fraud!"   
  
John covered his ears. The crowd was out of control! He wondered how they would ever get seats inside…  
  
"Find Ratcliffe! Hang him too!" a woman beside him shouted, angry.  
  
"Hang him! Hang him! Hang him!" the chant was raised.  
  
Suddenly, a booming, angry voice broke through - "SHUT UP!!! He's innocent!!!"  
  
John, absolutely startled, turned to find Ben beside them. Since when did Ben think Ratcliffe was innocent? What the hell was going on?  
  
The silence lasted for a mere moment, before the challenged crowd, more quarrelsome than ever, started up again. "Hang him! Hang him!"  
  
"Ben!" John panicked, realizing the newcomer was now sober and standing beside Lon. "What are you doing here?"  
  
"Sorry I'm late. I had to grab Lon a drink. He's seriously pissed."   
  
John froze. He turned to Lon and though he tried, couldn't speak. Lon shrugged helplessly. "I had to tell him, John. Sorry."  
  
"LON!" Smith turned three shades of red.  
  
"John, calm down… Hear me out…" Lon started, his gestures defensive. "I couldn't go mad and commit suicide like all the others. I couldn't just start over! Now, I've been friends with Ben five times longer than I've been friends with you. I had always planned on telling him everything. But, you… YOU found out by accident… and-"  
  
"NO! I found out through your stupidity!" John was shouting. "How could you be so selfish?! How could… you… you…"  
  
"John…" Ben started.  
  
John, red and blinking back wet rage, for a moment couldn't speak. Finally, he lashed out in a fierce whisper. "I can NOT believe you, Lon! How could you?! You put yourself before the rest of the world?! You bastard!"  
  
"John, please, try to understand…" Lon started.  
  
John shook his head. "No… no… I have to… I've got to get out of here!" With that, he turned and disappeared into the crowd.  
  
"John! John!" Lon called after him. For a moment, he attempted to follow, but was blocked by the crowd. Finally giving up, he sighed and turned to Ben.  
  
"He's losing his mind…" Ben shrugged, taking a drink.  
  
***  
  
"You're best to just admit you're a fraud - plead guilty and then hope they'll have mercy…" his lawyer insisted.  
  
"But I'm NOT a fraud. The fountain exists!" Ratcliffe was desperate. Blazing with fever, his vision blurred. What if he lost himself to hallucination during the trial?   
  
"Shh… here comes the judge. Plead guilty or your dead…"   
  
"Heresy, Heresy… Court is now in session. All rise for the honourable Judge Franklin…"  
  
***  
  
Judge Jeffery Franklin stirred his tea, distracted. He and his colleagues were waiting for the jury to reach it's decision…  
  
"Well, Jeff… don't keep us in suspense… what do YOU think?"  
  
Jeff said nothing, stirring, deep in thought. Therefore, another man stepped in - "I can't believe it! He burst into tears, rambling about how he was telling the truth. If only he'd listened to his lawyer… Perhaps pled insanity at least… Now he's finished. The jury will tear him apart. He's dead."  
  
"He hasn't a prayer." Another agreed solemnly.   
  
Judge Jeff sighed, setting down his spoon. He took a sip, still thinking. Finally, he spoke, distant… "I just don't know, gentlemen… I just don't know…"  
  
"You believe him?"  
  
"No… well… no." Jeff decided. "No, I don't."  
  
***  
  
Ratcliffe, in his dark, dripping cell… was on his knees, deep in prayer. His prayer had no words… just strong emotion. Silent tears slipped down his young cheeks… He was burning with fever… but desperate to focus in prayer…  
  
Finally, he found his trembling voice. "Lord, please… I'm sorry. I'm sorry for all the terrible things I've done. I'm sorry I never believed in you until you gave me glory. I'm sorry I accepted that glory the wrong way. I'm sorry… I'm sorry my life's been filled with such hate. I'm sorry it has to end with such fear… I'm sorry for - I'm sorry for everything!"  
  
He sighed a wet, trembling sigh. After a moment, he continued, "I know I don't deserve your forgiveness. Your mercy. I… deserve this, Lord… I don't want to live… but I'm afraid to die. I'm frightened, Lord. I've never been so frightened…"  
  
He bit his lips, water building. He looked up through the bars, into the stars… knowing in the morning the jury would announce his end. "I was so angry with you, Lord. Angry you gave me all this… all my dreams… and then took it all away. Brutally. This is my very worst nightmare. Yet… I'm not angry any more. I'm past angry…"  
  
He hesitated, the tears spilling over, "Look, I know… I know… that among the nobles… I've always been weak. The weakest. Yes, Lord, there's no doubt… I'm the weakest of the strong. I'm scared."   
  
He began to sob, covering his face. "I'm scared. Don't let them hang me, God, please… I'm sorry."  
  
***  
  
It was after midnight and the jury was finally ready to debate. The twelve gentlemen sat in near darkness, discussing…  
  
"Well, it's obvious the little con is guilty."   
  
"How should he be punished though?"  
  
"Death." Ally lit the room, leaning back in his chair and planting his feet on the desk, lighting a cigar.  
  
"I don't think his crime warrants death. I mean, he just tried to fool the royal court. He didn't hurt anyone." A sympathetic older man muttered.  
  
"You saw that mob today…" another juror warned. "People from all over the country have come to London. They want him dead. They'll go crazy if we don't kill him."  
  
The older man bit his lip, "Well…"  
  
"How should we kill him?"  
  
Ally inhaled deeply, thinking, and than released a perfect ring of smoke. He'd worked with Governor Ratcliffe several times over the years and knew his fear… "Hang him."  
  
"That IS what he crowd calls for."   
  
"It would be more merciful to behead…" a young man spoke uneasily.  
  
"Too merciful. The crowd wants him to hang."  
  
"Since when did the crowd dictate justice?" the old man insisted. "I say we give him a prison sentence. Nothing more."  
  
"Old man…" Ally leaned in. "As the jury, we're sending a message to the people. Juries are suppose to condition the people with verdicts. They cry for blood because they know they obey the law for a reason. They obey the law, so if someone else doesn't - there'd better pay. Do you want every boy out there to think he can disgrace the king and court and get away with it? Live to tell the tale? The monarchy will come across weak. Rebellions are made of such stuff. Do we want to send that kind of message? Now, I say we hang him. Who's with me?"  
  
All 12 agreed.  
  
***  
  
Watching the handsome, young defendant - who had clearly been crying - Judge Jeff grumbled to his stenographer, "We don't even know the man's name. How can we convict a foreign stranger?…"  
  
"The king isn't to be argued with, your honour." The young man replied.   
  
"I suppose, I suppose." Jeff sighed. "Yet… oh, here's the jury, now."  
  
Ratcliffe watched, his face red with tears and fever. His eyes had bruised from crying all night. He watched the jury take there seats. He desperately wished he had a hand to hold. Yet, no one in the world cared for him. He'd never held a hand in his life…   
  
"Will the defendant rise…" the judge commanded when the time was right.  
  
Ratcliffe and his attorney rose. He glanced at the jury, but found only cold, hard, almost hateful expressions. All save an old man, who averted his eyes with guilt.  
  
"Has the jury reached a verdict?" Jeff asked Ally, the head juror.   
  
"We have, your honour." The captain spoke gravely, though inside he was smiling and laughing maliciously and Ratcliffe knew it.  
  
"How do you find the defendant?"  
  
"Your honour…" Ally began solemnly.   
  
The pressure was building… he was trapped… trapped in an ancient parade… his horse spooked… the pressure building… Ratcliffe cringed, closing his eyes.  
  
"Of all counts of fraud, we find the defendant… guilty."  
  
A fresh tear trickled down the youth's bruised cheek.  
  
"Of all counts of treachery, we find the defendant… guilty."  
  
Jeff's eyes lowered, this was horrible.  
  
"Of all charges, your honour… we find the defendant… guilty."  
  
"You're sentence?" Jeff tried to sound neutral.  
  
Ratcliffe wished he could cover his ears. Disappear. The tears came freely now. He was terrified.  
  
"Death, your honour. By hanging." 


	7. The Hanging of John Ratcliffe

WHERE PONCE DE LEON FAILED…  
  
Chapter Seven: The Hanging of John Ratcliffe   
  
Disclaimer: Disney owns all the Pocahontas stuff.  
  
A/N: Trust me.  
  
***  
  
John sat by a pond beneath a melancholy willow. All who would usually occupy the park were outside the courthouse shouting, he assumed. Here he sat, downcast, flipping aimlessly through the journal again. Mindlessly, flipping. Glancing at the doodles, the side notes. The stanzas of poetry here and there. It had all been so enchanting, it would still be enchanting… had it not come from… that mind.  
  
He sighed, blond hair in his face. He expected pathetic fallacy to kick in any moment… a soft rain would be nice. Instead, a small sparrow landed on a nearby rock and began to sing. It hopped from the rock and along the path, chirping merrily. John glanced up slowly, his blue eyes cold. Gritting his teeth, he grabbed a rock a hurled it at the bird. Missing, the sparrow was gone.  
  
Frustrated, John hurled another rock… this one attempted to skip across the water, instead slamming hard and vanishing. Biting his lip, John slammed the journal, "Damn it! … God Damn it!"  
  
After a moment, he calmed, letting out a large sigh. He picked up the book and wished he had finished it before he'd learned the truth. It was too late now, though. He'd never be able to read it the same way. Never… and for some reason, it broke his heart. Why was life so hard sometimes? So complicated?  
  
His thoughts returned to Ben and Lon. He finally understood early comments made by Lon and Captain Ellington about the other men from the South America crew. Losing the former selves, their former lives, had been too much. They'd killed themselves. They truly had made the sacrifice he'd spoken him. It hurt to recall the guilt trip he'd laid on Lon…  
  
Lon had known Ben since they were boys. They were tight. Lon had dropped everything to help Ben and his wife move from London to a little farm in the country. Ben had given up the sailor's life. He'd decided to try his hand at agriculture. Lon had stuck around and helped him start before taking on Ratcliffe and the rainforest. Years earlier, they'd signed up for the Virginia Company together. Very old friends, indeed. Ben had been the only one Lon had ever intended to tell in the first place…  
  
Shoving the guilt aside, John grasped for logic. If enough people were convinced of the spring's existence… and then they actually found it… the entire order of the universe would be destroyed. Soon, a few sailors and a Governor wouldn't be the only ones with youth and beauty restored… Yet… perhaps Lon was right… perhaps… perhaps…  
  
Then it struck him. He'd been the one to tell Lon the situation was bigger than anyone. It really was. It was out of their hands. Too much for any one man to try and prevent. They had to let nature run its course… fate unfold herself…  
  
Suddenly, he realized a figure was cautiously approaching. Gently, hesitating, Lon stepped forward. He seemed to be debating on what to say - not realizing he'd been seen. "John…" he said carefully, after an awkward moment. "John… I'm sorry…"  
  
John didn't answer for a moment, thinking. He had too much pride. He didn't want to forgive, forget or apologize himself. However, they had to move on… "Don't apologize. Let's just put this behind us."  
  
Silence. Lon wanted to be forgiven. To have some closure… and he realized John wouldn't give it. After a moment, he tried again - "I know I was selfish… but, John… try to understand what…"  
  
"I understand now, Lon. The situation is larger than life. I said so myself. It's too much for any one man to take responsibility for. I realize that now. We've just got to let fate flow…" John sighed, without looking up. It was hard to admit he'd been wrong. Very hard.  
  
"Thanks for understanding." Lon felt closure. That was as close to an apology as he would ever get and he knew it.  
  
A lull followed… the only sound a distant sparrow. John glanced up for an instant, asking, "So, did you get a seat inside?"  
  
"No, unfortunately. There were too many people. We didn't even have a chance…"  
  
John wasn't surprised. He skipped a stone a cross the water's smooth surface and then asked, "Have they reached a verdict?"  
  
"Yes. Word was out this morning…"  
  
"And?" John froze.  
  
"They're hanging him this afternoon."  
  
Again, Smith wasn't surprised. "What time?"  
  
"Round three, I think. Ben and I were thinking of going…"  
  
"Public hangings." John snorted. "I can't believe how I use to enjoy such a barbarous custom. After spending time with Pocahontas and her people… I look at our culture so differently… Public executions excite the hell out of these people. A grand show, entertainment. 'Let's go watch the terrified Governor get hanged! Let's laugh and jeer as though it's the circus! Let's have festivities… the whole city will turn out and fill bleachers as though it were a sporting event! Hurray!' I can just picture it all. It makes me sick, Lon. Sick!"   
  
"John, I'm sure the Indians have similar customs… on a smaller scale… All cultures are alike. All of 'em…"  
  
John snorted skeptically again.  
  
"Even Rome had her Coliseum…"  
  
"Well, I've heard quite enough about 'Rome'… Power and glory, my ass!"  
  
"John…" Lon sighed. "We're not going for entertainment. I don't like to see a man hanged. It just… seems appropriate somehow. Like, it's what we should do…"  
  
"You're conditioned to turn out whenever there's a hanging, admit it."  
  
"John…"  
  
"You wouldn't miss it for the world."  
  
Lon sighed. There was no point in arguing. He didn't want Smith angry with him again. "I take it you won't be accompanying us then?"  
  
"Not a chance."  
  
***  
  
"I believed in you… you were my idol, Chris…"   
  
***  
  
Ratcliffe snapped awake - a feverish dream. He had less than an hour to live and he was sleeping. How could he possibly sleep? He supposed it was the sickness. He was sick straight to the heart. His very core was poisoned with fever. At least when he died the pain would be over.  
  
Still, the hanging frightened him. Why couldn't they publicly burn him? Slice his head off by guillotine? Send for a firing squad?   
  
"Why the gallows?" he whispered, this voice weak and frightened.  
  
As though on cue, beautiful female singing rose… as though a wise and powerful cherub was singing, watching over him. Comforting him in his darkest hour. Was it all part of the hallucinations? Or was a majestic angel really singing soothingly somewhere?  
  
With a shaky sigh, the Governor closed his eyes and tried to sleep. To lie awake would be to cry in terror…  
  
***  
  
"Governor…" a hanging skeleton whispered. "You have all eternity to sleep…"  
  
***  
  
Panicked, he snapped back to reality. The rainforest and its frightening fountain of youth would haunt him until his dying breath…  
  
Suddenly, a cool cloth crossed his brow… "Wiggins?"  
  
A beautiful, raven haired girl was leaning over him, trying to bring down his fever. She sang softly, almost under her breath. She seemed to glow, almost radiant. The Governor tried to speak, but she hushed him.  
  
He'd always expected angels to be blonde… and though she was shockingly perfect and as spiritually soothing as a cherub… she was dark and mysterious too…  
  
"First Peter 3'4…" She whispered and was gone.  
  
***  
  
The crowd was excited and the two sailors were struggling through, hoping for decent seats. In ten minutes the execution would commence and Governor Ratcliffe would be no more. Ben, still very bitter over Jamestown, felt no pity whatsoever… but Lon, spending time with the man on the last trek… felt a pang of guilt. After all, Ratcliffe WAS innocent… this time…  
  
"BEN! LON!" a cheerful, young voice called over the din.  
  
The men looked left, right, center… but couldn't find the fellow. Thousands had turned out, therefore it wasn't at all surprising they'd run into a forgotten friend… One tended to run into old acquaintances at public functions such as these.   
  
"Up here!" the young voice shouted again.  
  
This time, they saw the source. Sitting with his family in the highest row of the closest bleacher, a red head was waving to them. He motioned to a few empty places beside them, quickly filling.  
  
Very surprised to see Thomas in England, both men exchanged glances before scurrying through the mass of men, women and children to their seats…  
  
"Tom! What brings you to London?" Lon spoke first.  
  
"How's Virginia?" Ben couldn't resist, sounding bitter.  
  
Thomas lowered his eyes, sounded slightly shamed. "It was hard. Very hard."  
  
Both men understood instantly. "Ah, lad…" Lon grabbed his shoulder. "You held out there longer than either of us. You gave it you're best shot - nothing to be ashamed of. It was damn hard over there. We'd have starved without the Indians."  
  
Ben nodded sympathetically. "Freezing cold… no food… it was hell."  
  
"It certainly was…" Thomas sighed. "Not a speck of gold, either."  
  
"Exactly… and that's the only reason any of us actually went." Ben smiled at the quirk of fate. "Gold."  
  
Tom nodded thoughtfully and then thought of Captain Smith. "Have you seen John lately?"  
  
"Oh ya…" Ben grinned. "We're close company these days."  
  
"Is he here?" the young man couldn't contain his excitement.   
  
The older men exchanged a glance, considering their response… before Lon went with, "He had a lot on today, Tom. He couldn't make it."  
  
After a moment's silence, Tom suddenly remembered himself and motioned to his parents, "Ben, Lon… this is my mother and father… and little Sarah."   
  
After introductions went all the way around… the conversation turned to the execution, as was inevitable. Thomas spoke with an enthusiasm that reminded Lon how much the lad had left to learn. The boy about to hang was his age, yet, the thought didn't even cross his mind! Lon was reminded of Jamestown. Before him sat the same Thomas who had spoke of blasting Indians. Then he'd learned better. This was another lesson Tom would learn with age. It was almost depressing.  
  
"When they find Ratcliffe, I bet they'll hang him too!"   
  
"Ya…" the men weren't sure what to say. It was awkward.   
  
"It's funny, though…" Tom concluded. "He said WE would hang."  
  
"Hilarious." Ben shifted in his seat, uncomfortable.  
  
Suddenly, a very important, well-dressed fellow took his seat in a private booth across the way. He smiled a dashing smile and waved to the crowd as though he were the only reason they'd assembled. Thomas watched him for a moment before noticing the bitter expression his friends wore.  
  
"What's wrong? Who's that?"  
  
"Ally Ellington." Both men answered in flat, bitter unison. There eyes never left the braggart. Any moment the ass would start blowing kisses.   
  
Thomas and his father exchanged confused glances, "Should I know him?"   
  
"No-" Ben started, but Lon interrupted…  
  
"He was my Captain last voyage, lad. An arrogant fool. Greedy too. Very dangerous combination. You thought Ratcliffe was bad… this guy's much worse…"  
  
Tom's blue eyes widened, shocked. "Good God - does he butcher children?"  
  
Ben had to laugh. "Lon's just sour, Tommy. Relax. All he means is that… Captain Ellington was obsessed with gold and glory, just like Ratcliffe. He went about similar means to try and obtain them too. All that makes him worse is that he actually succeeded."  
  
"Evil should never triumph." Tom's mother muttered, changing positions.  
  
Thomas watched the pirate blow his first kiss, then changed the subject. "I've been in London a few months now. I'm surprised I haven't run into any of you sooner."  
  
"Well… I just got back two weeks ago from a long, long voyage…" Lon started to answer.  
  
"…And I've moved out of the city. A little farm just outside 'a Dor-"  
  
Trumpet fanfare sounded and Sarah grabbed her brother's hand, shaking it, overjoyed. "The entertainment's starting, Tommy! The entertainment!"  
  
As Tom smiling addressed his little sister… Lon was thinking of John and his comments about society. Shaking his head, he started to stand - utterly disturbed. "I…"  
  
"Lon?" Ben noticed first, then everyone turned to him.  
  
"I can't watch this." Lon said quickly, turning and rushing down through the crowd to the grass below.   
  
"Lon!" Ben was very surprised. What the hell? He started after, muttering his manners to Tom's family. As he shoved his way down to the ground, the crowd was extremely annoyed. Twice now they were disrupted, just as the action was starting…  
  
Lon, rushing along the crowd's edge, stumbled, glancing back at Ben, who was gaining on him. As he turned back to sprint, he slammed head on into a hooded figure. Both men slammed to the ground hard. The hood flew off and when Lon was no longer stunned he realized what was what, absolutely shocked…  
  
"John!"  
  
Smith pulled his hood up quickly.   
  
"John, you came…"  
  
"Ya, ya… I… I thought about what you said. I think I get what you mean. I feels like my destiny to be here. To watch the man who put me through such pain die…"  
  
Ben was upon them now. He recognized John immediately. "You're here!"  
  
"Ya… I…"  
  
Suddenly, the boos rang out over the masses. The three men, sitting on the grass before the bleachers, turned to see young Ratcliffe being thrown about in chains, slammed onto the field.   
  
All three froze.   
  
***  
  
Ratcliffe bit his lip until it bled. He was desperate to keep his dignity - he refused to bawl like a child before the spectators. Though he trembled and knew it would take everything he had… he had to leave the world with a little dignity.   
  
A dark hangman approached the him, ready to measure the noose. Holding his beautiful young head high with pretend pride, the boy felt the rope slip gently around his throat. In a moment, the caress would be hard, painful and murderous. For now, it was gentle and merely frightening.   
  
Taking his time, the masked man adjusted the loop. When he was ready, he slowly removed it. The Governor watched him set it up… and his heart raced faster and faster… as though it would burst. He felt as though he would be physically ill. As though he would piss himself. He bit his lip very hard… blood trickling down his perfect face, barely noticeable. He was so petrified he felt he might die right then and there of fright.  
  
"Any last requests?" the masked man asked neutrally.   
  
Ratcliffe didn't answer. His throat was very dry and trembling. He knew if he opened his mouth he would burst into tears. He couldn't even breath. He was going to die right then and there. Die of fright. His heart would explode before them all. His lungs would burst. His pulse beat harder and faster. In his throat more than anywhere else. His throat pounded. He became light headed with horror…  
  
"Perhaps a blindfold?"  
  
He said absolutely nothing. He couldn't speak. No blindfold, though. He had to know when the end was coming. He couldn't sit more terrified then ever in darkness… never knowing when the end would come…  
  
The executioner realized he wasn't going to get an answer… so he started the Governor up the stairs…  
  
Ratcliffe, visibly trembling now, felt his legs give. He was too frightened to function - he couldn't walk! He stumbled on the stairs. The crowd laughed. So much for dignity. He was terrified beyond all sense. He wanted to struggle. To kick, scream, bite, kill. He had to escape. He couldn't die! He just couldn't die!  
  
The hangman yanked him back up on his feet. "Walk." His legs gave out from under him again. He pulled the boy up - harsher - "WALK." Ratcliffe was shoved onto the platform. The crowd was laughing at him. Absolutely jeering…  
  
Ratcliffe felt his knees buckle… he was on his knees before them all now. He tried to pray. Tried to think. Unfortunately, all he could do was let the silent tears flow. He desperately wanted to whimper, but wouldn't. The masked man pulled him to his feet again, rougher still. The tears continued to flow gently, his cheeks still bruised from all the crying of the past day and night. He looked such a wretch it was heartbreaking. He wouldn't bawl before them… but he would certainly cry…  
  
The rope was slipped around his neck, gentle still… soft…  
  
"Any last words?"  
  
The Governor, realizing this was his last chance… took a very deep breath and spoke with all the courage he could muster. "I have succeeded where Ponce De Leon failed. Pity no one will ever know."  
  
The crowd was perfectly silent now. Ratcliffe braced himself. It was all over. He was about to die in the most terrifying manner possible. The executioner positioned himself… ready… any second now… The Governor cringed… bracing himself… still unable to pray…   
  
The hangman pulled his cord. 


	8. The Strongest of the Weak

WHERE PONCE DE LEON FAILED…  
  
Chapter Eight: The Strongest of the Weak  
  
***  
  
Disclaimer: Thank Disney for Pocahontas. ^_^  
  
A/N: A very good question was asked - "Why didn't Tom notice Lon looked different?" Sorry for not coming right out and addressing this. Here's the answer: Firstly, as was mentioned in an earlier chapter, Lon's change wasn't THAT extreme. It took John Smith an entire conversation to realize something was different and actually pinpoint what it was. Secondly, Ben was sitting closer to Tom. Lon was on the far side. Lastly, there were thousands of noisy, distracting people around. There. Sorry I didn't clear that up in the chapter. I thought it, but I didn't write it. ^_^ Anyway, ya - I'm not perfect. I'm always messing up, so I appreciate readers paying attention and pointing things out. Thanks! ^_^   
  
Get ready for a really TWISTED chapter…  
  
***  
  
"Chris… you lied about everything…"  
  
***  
  
Silence.   
Sudden drop.   
Frightening fall.   
SLAM! AH! Ouch!   
Absolute panic…   
  
***  
  
"Chris… you lied about everything… I trusted you!"  
  
***  
  
The crowd sat in silent anticipation. A black glove slowly rose to meet the cord. Holding it a moment, time seemed to stop. Not a rustle, not a breath. The world and all within it stood perfectly still. Unexpectedly, the hangman broke the spell, jerking the cord hard. Instantly a trap door snapped open beneath the Governor's feet and he dropped, startled and then terrified. The ground below his feet gave way and he hurled several feet down. With a sickening crack he slammed to the end of his rope…   
  
***  
  
AH! OUCH!   
  
"CHRIS!"  
  
***  
  
However, to the shock and amazement of the crowd… his neck held out.  
  
The Governor kicked and struggled wildly in desperate panic, instinct taking over. It was obvious he was trying to screech… but was choking… Blood began to trickle from his mouth as he strained his dying throat… his eyes wide with terror…  
  
***  
  
Ally Ellington leaned back in his chair, commenting to his comrades with cruel indifference, "Hm… his neck didn't snap… now we'll have to watch him strangle…"   
  
***  
  
His survival instincts blaring red alert, the Governor bucked and seethed and struggled, suffocating. His throat started bleeding. Blood trickled from his mouth and ears. Making horrible noises, he couldn't breath…  
  
He couldn't think. He could only react. He was blindly battling against the inevitable. In seconds, he'd be dead…  
  
***  
  
King James turned to his good friend and historian, "My! He's certainly holding out…"  
  
"Strong of spirit." The other commented, thinking again of Octavian.  
  
***  
  
His face discoloring… the Governor started to weaken. He was fading fast… his head was already taking on the frightened angle all hanged ones took…   
  
***  
  
"Chris?" … "Marco?" … "Someone… ANYONE… HELP ME! … PLEASE!!!"  
  
***  
  
Finally, his kicking ceased… and he was dangling…   
  
His eyes slowly trembled shut… his head resting on his shoulder in a slant only the dead could manage…   
  
***  
  
Her basket hit the ground, corn spilling everywhere. Pocahontas stood frozen. Falling slowly to her knees, her expression was far away and frightened…  
  
"What's wrong?" a girl dropped beside her, worried.  
  
The Amerindian princess didn't answer… she stared off… troubled…  
  
"I sense it too, child…" the Willow's face formed. "I sense it in the air… in the very earth…"  
  
"Pocahontas!" her sister shook her, very worried.  
  
"…I… felt a chill…"   
  
"It's as though the very order of the universe has been tampered with…" Grandmother Willow trailed off. She ruffled her leaves and slipped back into neutrality, deeply disturbed.   
  
Abandoned, Pocahontas turned, looking out into the open wilderness…   
  
  
***  
  
The crowd began to murmur again… but John Smith said nothing, staring. Ben slapped his back in comfort, rising. Lon touched his shoulder… but he failed to feel it. He was staring at the young, beautiful, lifeless corpse, dangling… just dangling…  
  
***  
  
"It was chilling, eh?" Tom turned to his father. "I mean, we all went so quiet. I swear… it was silent."  
  
"Ya… usually crowd's scream loudest when the hanging happens…" his father agreed. "Yet, somehow…   
  
"Something was wrong…" Sarah interrupted quietly, her eyes down. She hadn't enjoyed the execution. It had been different. Very different.  
  
"Nonsense, Sarah…" their father addressed her kindly. "Nothing - oh, hush now… here we go…"  
  
***  
  
Again, against tradition, the crowd grew silent. Several darkly dressed men crossed the field prepared to remove the hanging body. They approached slowly… very slowly…  
  
  
***  
  
Suddenly panicked, Pocahontas sprang to her feet and up the willow. At the top she stared out over the sea… The beautiful waters were dark and troubled… a storm brewing over the horizon… the sun seemed to disappear in dark clouds and all was cold… very cold…   
  
The Old World…   
  
***  
  
They approached slowly… Ratcliffe dangling, dead…   
  
Suddenly…  
  
The eyes snapped open.  
  
***  
  
Pocahontas cried out and fell… all the way down… landing with a sickening crack…   
  
***  
  
The crowd gasped, frightened. The head remained disturbingly slanted on the lifeless body… but the eyes stared out at the world. One would swear it was just the brain dying… a process that tends to take several moments…   
  
However, as the crowd stared at the eyes… they stared back… and blinked every so often… with comprehension…  
  
***  
  
Ally Ellington, as pale as death, understood. "OH… MY… GOD…"  
  
***  
  
"Tommy… I'm scared…" Sarah held his hand, her voice trembling and wet.   
  
***  
  
The crowd was instantly petrified, as was their king. Something very wrong, very unnatural was happening. Something terrifying! Surely this was a demon straight from the pits of hell. Panicking, he had a very human response shared by all the audience - kill it.  
  
"Kill it!" he reacted instantly.  
  
His guards drew their guns and aimed to kill…  
  
***  
  
Smith, who had been frozen with fright… now watched as the world slipped into slow motion. The guns were aimed directly at the monster's head… they started for their triggers…  
  
In a blur of mixed emotion, Smith reacted against all natural instinct. He had the most inhuman response possible under the circumstances - save it.   
  
Just as the rifles sounded off, the captain lunged forward and slammed the row of soldiers, knocking their angles. All missed but one, which skimmed the rope just above the Governor's head…  
  
The body teetered a moment before the rope gave and he fell several feet to the ground below with a nauseating thud.   
  
The dust settled and the dark eyes were closed…   
  
Relieved, the crowd settled back into their seats…  
  
***  
  
Letting out a choking sigh, Ally sat down. Pale and trembling, his breathing was labored. He tried to chuckle it off, noticing all his associates were staring…  
  
The brain had been dying. Nothing more. He'd overreacted. His secrets would drive him mad yet… He knew things man wasn't meant to know…  
  
***   
  
After a moment… the crowd settled back into conversation, though uncomfortable. Never before had they witnessed such an execution. All were grateful it was over…  
  
Smith slowly looked up through his unkempt hair. Slowly, his hard eyes noticed… the Governor's neck was bruising. The blood was gone…   
  
***  
  
Ally, laughing now, remembered Smith's interference. Turning his attention to the fallen sailor, he prepared to shout something obnoxious… when he noticed the man's expression… a hard, knowing expression…   
  
Concerned again, he turned and was scared stiff. Trembling and trying to rise, Ellington stumbled and fell. "He's… he's…"  
  
***  
  
"…healing…" a doctor whispered in awe from his seat in the crowd.  
  
***  
  
John stumbled his feet, using Lon, both men staring at the living Governor. "How…" he managed weakly.  
  
"… He drank enough, John…"  
  
***  
  
"He's just unconscious." Wiggins realized from his spot beside Count Wexford-Smyth. "He actually drank enough to…"  
  
***  
  
"…live forever!" Juan Ponce de Leon announced boldly, leading his men deeper into the forest's heart. He turned to an unconscious, delirious Ratcliffe and patted his back kindly. "Feeling better, my boy?"  
  
"A little, sir." His voice was young and very Spanish.  
  
"Wonderful, wonderful." The arrogant fellow seemed to brush the subject aside suddenly - his crazed enthusiasm drawn elsewhere for a moment…  
  
Ratcliffe watched the excitable, middle aged man for a moment and almost smiled. It felt wonderful to be in the warm, beautiful rainforest again. The Spaniards around him whistled and chatted casually… they didn't struggle and starve as his men had…  
  
Ponce turned around, holding up their map, "My boy, I- MY BOY!" Their leader was very startled and visibly frightened. His eyes expressed sheer panic. The contrast was so alarming, Ratcliffe found himself panicking.   
  
"My boy - your THROAT!"   
  
Ratcliffe grasped his throat and realized it was absolutely gushing black blood. His neck vanished beneath it as it overflowed…  
  
***  
  
"Governor…" a cheerful voice called from down the hall.   
  
Ratcliffe bundled up tightly in his warm, soft, comfy sheets.   
  
"Governor?" a young man entered the room.  
  
Though he caught the aroma of a scrumptious breakfast, Ratcliffe curled tighter still in the fetal position beneath the comfitures. As much as he loved to eat… he was absolutely exhausted and wanted to sleep…   
  
"I've made your favourite, sir…" Wiggins tempted.  
  
Ratcliffe rolled over, pulling the blankets. He mumbled, very sleepy, "… just fifteen more minutes…"  
  
"Come now, sir, you know-"  
  
"…FIVE more minutes…"  
  
Wiggins smiled. "Very well, sir."  
  
Suddenly, Ratcliffe opened his eyes, thinking. His voice. His voice was back to normal. Sleepy, he realized… it had all been a dream…  
  
A DREAM. Thank God.   
  
Groggy, he mumbled, "Wiggins… I had the most horrible dream…"  
  
"Do tell, sir…" the servant was putting away his laundry.  
  
The Governor, thinking of how vivid and real the experience had been, sat up slowly. "I dreamed all my dreams came true… I had gold… power… glory… I'd even found the fountain of youth. I was young and beautiful. Forever. It was too good to be true."  
  
Wiggins stopped folding, his back stiffening.  
  
"Unfortunately, it all crashed and burned in my face. No one believed about the fountain, Wiggins. They arrested me… and killed me…"  
  
When his servant stayed silent… Ratcliffe continued, "There were all these dreams inside the dream, too. My… it was all so real. It seemed like years and years. The longest dream of my life…" Sighing, he added, "They were all screaming for my, blood. God. I wonder what it meant…"  
  
Wiggins sighed, his head down. It was getting harder and harder to deal with this. The madness was getting worse with the passing of each day.   
  
"Wiggins…" Ratcliffe realized something was wrong.  
  
Wiggins turned around. His face was still beautiful.   
  
*** 


	9. Walter Ralegh and the Appointment

WHERE PONCE DE LEON FAILED - PART TWO  
Chapter Nine: Walter Ralegh and the Election   
  
  
Disclaimer: Pocahontas stuff belongs to Disney. The remainder is a mix of history and me. As for history, I realize this story is filled with anachronisms and inaccuracies and all that - but I had to make it work somehow, right? ^_^  
  
A/N: The second installment. Yes, there's more - the story continues. What could possibly happen after THAT? What new hurdles arise? Find out. (Unless of course, you like Part One as is. It can stand alone.) Thank you to Martian Ares for being such a loyal reader. However, I don't think I'll add Chapter Ten until I get a couple more reviews. It's nice to known people are reading… Thanks! ;)  
  
***  
  
The endless spiraling stairs seemed bottomless, dark and dangerous. Stepping with miserable caution, Wiggins knew a slip or stumble would mean death. The damp, echoing stairway seemed haunted - as though the ghost of a murdered royal would shove him to a slamming, painful end at any instant. He couldn't even imagine what smashing step after agonizing step until he finally died would be like. How long would it take to die? The slippery steps dripped, filling the silence with eerie echoes that made his pulse race. He hated the tower. He absolutely hated it. The endless steps were frightening, obtaining permission frustrating and the Governor more mindless everyday. God, why did towers exist? They were dreadful! He hated having Count Wexford-Smyth beg for visitations… but it was the only way.   
  
Though he cared for the Governor dearly, he was secretly grateful he only had to visit once a week. Sunday morning. He came Sunday mornings to do the laundry, clean, read the man his prayers and feed him his decent meal for the week. Though Ratcliffe's mental state was deteriorating steadily, Wiggins knew he was lonely and that the visits did him good - yet, his fear of towers prevented him asking Count Wexford-Smyth to fight for further visits. Besides, maintaining the schedule they had was enough of a battle.   
  
Stumbling, the youth grabbed the wet wall, panicked. Letting out a sigh of relief, he steadied himself and remembered exactly why towers existed. They made excellent prisons. A former friend, Jerry, had once explained, "Towers are where you put someone to forget about them. It's an unofficial prison. House arrest. It's where you put someone who's committed no real crime, you just want them out of your life, out of your way, whatever. It's creepy. The stuff of conspiracies."   
  
King James hadn't had a clue how to deal with the Ratcliffe situation. It was now proven beyond doubt that the foreign criminal was in fact Governor John Ratcliffe after all. He'd been telling the truth. He had committed no crime. In fact, he was owed a very serious apology. Sadly, this wasn't possible. The hideous situation was being buried, post haste. Though they tried to cover up… Ratcliffe's arrival at court, the public trial, the public hanging, all the civilians involved with his imprisonment and gossip all over the country side were impossible to erase. The remaining members of the Fountain of Youth crew also posed a problem - thankfully most had chosen self slaughter. Keeping Ratcliffe out of the lime light and spin doctoring the rest was their only prayer.  
  
Ratcliffe didn't deserve to die and perhaps couldn't die… but, he couldn't go free and could no longer be publicly imprisoned. Ralegh's tower was the only solution. Lock him in a tower where he'd be forgotten. The very method used in most royal conspiracies. Royals locking other Royals in towers until they were executed, murdered or died naturally. Ratcliffe was doomed. Fortunately, he seemed barely aware of his situation. After his botched hanging, the Governor hadn't been the same.  
  
***  
  
Ratcliffe sighed, staring blankly at the fire. He'd been listening to Walter Ralegh babble for almost an hour now. Yes, the pair had been friends for years and had much in common, but this was getting ridiculous. Jamestown, Virginia was not the end all and be all. Taking another sip of liquor, the Governor closed his eyes and began to dose off, fantasizing about the outside world. Green grass. Blue skies. The sun. The moon. The stars. The wind, rain… snow. He hadn't breathed fresh air in over a month. Wiggins wouldn't even crack a window. Forbidden.  
  
Walter's wife called, her voice lifeless. As she entered, Ratcliffe saw her face matched - darkening, sickly, sunken in to the point of skeletal - imprisonment was destroying her. She had once been such a lively girl. Cheerful and somewhat pretty. These days she looked like hell. She worsened everyday and it almost pained the Governor to look at her. "Walt…" she repeated, coughing slightly.  
  
"Love, I'll have to fix you up something for that." chipper Ralegh, dressed from top to toe in finery, rose. Ratcliffe exchanged a knowing, uneasy look with the woman, for they both knew of Walter's experiments with cordial herbs. He fancied himself a medicine man.   
  
"Well, until later, Ralegh." He broke the gaze, realizing after all these years he still called everyone, even friends, by their surnames. It was polite, but formal. Why did he have to be so by the book with the little things and absolutely scandalous on a larger scale. It was peculiar really.   
  
"Adieu, old friend. It's so nice to have someone-"  
  
"-to talk to again. I know. I know." Ratcliffe forced a smile. Ralegh said it almost every time they parted company… and considering they shared living quarters that was quite often. Too often. Ralegh had been imprisoned for nearly twenty years and it showed.  
  
After watching the couple exit, he glanced around the sitting room they shared - a room he knew every inch of - he realized he wanted out. He desperately wanted out. His eyes froze on the window. It wasn't locked properly and therefore was microscopically ajar. Wiggins must have secretly opened it for himself and had absentmindedly failed to close it correctly. As decent an attendant as the fellow was, no one was perfect and this had happened twice before. Seizing the opportunity, he sprang to his feet and struggled to force the latch all the way. It finally came and he opened the bared window. Glancing down the green grass below he smiled - it was Monday. He had nearly a week until Wiggins would come and lock it on him again.  
  
***  
  
John lay on the floor, dozens of thick books sprawled open about him. Sighing in frustration he ran a hand through his blond hair, glancing at Lon. His friend was dozing off again. While the entire world seemed to be forgetting the fountain of youth, they were working hard to solve the mystery.  
  
"Lon!" he startled his friend awake.  
  
"Wha-" the redhead came back to life dazed. "What now, John?"  
  
"Describe the ruins again…"  
  
Lon moaned, but was interrupted by a slamming book before he could protest. Ben, fed up, had slammed his text and was going to have his say, "This is stupid, John. We've been searching for a week and haven't found a thing. I can't stay here forever! My wife's worried sick. What's the point? Most 'a this stuff is well over our reading levels and is just useless! I still say we beat the answers out of Ellington."  
  
"Ben, no, I-"  
  
"I'm starting to agree with him, actually. Ellington has all the answers. I'm certain he knows where the golden ruins are. In fact, I swear, he plans to periodically return there for treasure and fountain water." Lon sighed, propping himself on one elbow on a desk.   
  
"And you're sure the Governor doesn't have a map?" Ben scowled.  
  
"He probably does - but there's no way in hell was can reach him as long as he's up in Ralegh's tower-"  
  
John lost his temper, "Alright! Alright! My way hasn't been working. I mean, I admit, this isn't fun. I'm not a scholar. I'm an a man of action. I'm the last person who'd rather talk than do… It's just… this time is different. The stakes are so much higher. Humanity's on the line, gentlemen. Humanity! We've got to go about all this the right way. We have to be careful-"  
  
"Damn it! Everyone's saying what they've said everyday for weeks! I've been in this city off and on for a month now. I agree things have got 'ta be done right - but, for God sakes, they've got 'ta be done period, people! I've had enough! Humanity is on the line, John. That's the bloody point. We've got to act before someone else does!" Ben slammed back his chair and started to leave. "I'm going home. As one 'a you lads said earlier… this problem's too large for three mortal men. I will say this thought - the John Smith I know wouldn't be worried about consequences. He knew when to shut up and take a chance."  
  
John watched him go, speaking distantly, "You know, a few days ago I'd have tried to stop him…"  
  
"He is right about one thing, John. It's not like you to worry about repercussions. Especially personal ones."  
  
"Oh - repercussions. Nice word." John jested lightly. "He was wrong about your reading level, anyway…"  
  
Lon hide a smile, "Stop avoiding the issue. Jamestown changed you more than you realize, you know. I tell you that all-"  
  
The blonde's tone turned harsh, "No, Lon." He snapped. "The hanging changed me. The hanging! Those eyes. They just flashed open, unexpected - it was…"  
  
"Horrible. I know. I was there." Lon interrupted gently.  
  
"Ya. Stuff like that's not suppose to happen. It's NOT."  
  
Before his friend could reply, Ben burst into the room, his face wide with realization. He held up the flag at John's front door; he'd just ripped it down.  
  
"Hey!" John started to get up.  
  
Ben stopped him. "I've got it! I know why Ratcliffe changed!"  
  
"We all do. That was no reason to tear down my-"  
  
"NO. His second change. After the hanging."  
  
"That's what I meant to. I thought you were going home!"  
  
"Listen, John." Ben insisted, really onto something. "As I was thundering outta here… this flag just triggered something. Staring at it, for some reason, I understood."  
  
"My flag?" John raised a skeptical eyebrow. Lon, constantly, took the flag and started to examine it.  
  
"Well, it's got nothing to do with the flag or anything it stands for - it's just - I don't know! You know how inspirations are!" When john's expression stayed skeptical, "ALRIGHT. I tore down the flag 'coz I was pissed - THEN I got the idea."  
  
John started to scowl, snatching his flag. "The point, Ben?"  
  
"Right, right." Ben rubbed his hands together. "It just hit me over the head really. We figure fifty percent of Ratcliffe's looks went after the hanging to compensate for his life. His voice went back entirely. However, what we don't understand is why. I mean, the fountain is suppose to a permanent-forever thing, right? Well, wrong. My theory is that you have to LIVE off the fountain. The people of the city must have lived forever because they lived off the water. The bathed, cooked, played, fished, swan and everything else in it. That's why Ellington would need a lifetime supply of the stuff. He has to use it for everything - but he's wrong. He wasn't born into the water - it's not part of his biological makeup, ya know?"   
  
"What?" Lon blinked, not understanding the last part.   
  
"What Ben's struggling to say, Lon - there isn't even a word for." Smith realized, "The locals ancestors had the water in their very bodies - their blood, their makeup - their biological makeup. There's a hereditary aspect to it! It had been in their ancient ancestors' blood, their greatest grandparents' blood… their parents blood… To top THAT off, they'd been exposed to the whole, external water since birth - probably washed in it AT birth. Nourished on it all through their time in the womb. It's some kind'a mix for blood and hereditary stuff…"  
  
Ben and Smith stood staring at one another for a moment, realizing the full extent of the theory. It would account for an awful lot. Unfortunately it was hard to explain, for sadly, the gene concept had yet to be invented.  
  
"So…" Ben wasn't sure what to say. He still wanted and needed to go home, but this global-scale crisis was getting interesting…   
  
"So… are you going to stick around? I mean, you're farm certainlt needs you… and Lon and I are low on funds. We haven't really worked in weeks. Wexford-Smyth owes me a lot of-"  
  
"I think I'll make another trip home to handle stuff that's cropped up. Put my wife's mind at ease… The hands can take care'a most stuff… but… I still need to make an appearance for and again. However, the Mrs. won't be thrilled if I go off with much more money…"  
  
"Well, when Wexford-Smyth pays me back for that scratched voyage… we'll have enough money to get us through a few more months… but… you've made a good point, Ben… we can't really go on like this…"  
  
"We can try…" Lon sighed. "Until we figure somethin' better…"  
  
"Ya…" the others were thinking.  
  
Suddenly, John looked up, "I can't believe you ripped my flag!"   
  
***  
  
The Governor carefully lit a candle, setting it on the dresser before the mirror. The soft light illuminated his new face. He'd always loved candlelight, there was something therapeutic about it. The fountain's power was partially gone. He was still attractive, only in a very different way. Older - he was early thirties. Solider - he was of more heavy, short build. He was well proportioned, though his muscle was not well-defined. He just came across burly. He looked incredibly dignified, respectable. His voice was back to normal and this new look matched. His dark hair was reasonably short and his facial hair slight and stylish. He liked himself. He was no longer a pretty boy - he was a man. A handsome gentleman. A month in this form convinced him it was superior. Though it had less vigor and beauty, it had everything else to the advantage. Besides, he'd never been a beautiful, energetic person - this was truer to soul. He didn't look like a bright eyed, innocent Adonis. He didn't look perfect. He looked like a dark and crafty Governor. Finally, his reflection showed his soul.   
  
Suddenly catching a presence in the corner of eye, he turned and gasped. His hand sprang in reaction, nearly knocking over his candle. Wax burned his hand, but he stifled a cry. Instead, he gritted his teeth and glared at the intruder. There, in the nearby corner by the door, sat Walter Ralegh. Walt was always popping up unexpected. How had he entered without a sound?   
  
In the darkened corner, Ralegh sat with a cold, frightening expression. Ratcliffe knew something should be said, but could find no words. His throat was closed. Creepy. Ralegh sat motionless, staring at him in such an eerie, unnerving way. The way the light lined his still form - it was disturbing.   
  
***  
  
I'm lonely. It's so nice to have someone to talk to again.  
  
***  
  
Ratcliffe and Ralegh were frozen, their gazes locked. Walter was out of control. These nightly visits were growing frequent and frightening. Something was unnatural. Something was wrong.   
  
***  
  
"Dash it all!" Wexford-Smyth slammed a long letter down. Silently stewing, he sipped his morning tea. Watching from the preparation table behind, Wiggins wished he could just sit down and pat the Count's hand, reassure him. Unfortunately, he wasn't a confidante - he was servant. Though his new employer treated him as a friend, a line had to be drawn somewhere… and sitting down at the man's breakfast table uninvited seemed the place.   
  
As he set down a platter of pastries, Smyth started to confide. Ah, the delicate balance of personal and professional. He was a confidante, just as he been with Ratcliffe, but it certainly wasn't his place to be. Complicated. He was constantly reevaluating things. He was tampering with delicate balances.   
  
"It's the election. Two monsters competing. Good lord, I should have ran at this rate…"  
  
Oh right. Ouch. Governor Ratcliffe's term was coming to an end and it was election time again. Unfortunately, as the former Governor was in no position to run, Wiggins had failed to remind him to submit. He was out of the running. In a few weeks, Governor Ratcliffe would be merely Mr. Ratcliffe. Yet, he couldn't know. He couldn't be told. It was just too devastating.   
  
Only two candidates had applied this term - two of Ratcliffe's greatest enemies - a fellow known as Martinez and Captain Ally Ellington. Frederico Martinez, once a hated Spaniard, had crossed over to the English side during the war and was an arch-rival to the present Governor. They had competed over social standing for years. As for Ellington, their former Captain, he now had more than enough money and bought status to compete for power and was wasting no time. Ratcliffe had always bribed his way into office and now Martinez and Ellington would compete to follow suit…   
  
"Who do you think will win?" Wiggins asked timidly.   
  
"Martinez. Hands down. I mean, who the hell is Ellington?" It was a figure of speech. Smyth had met Ally, but the fact remained he was new to the game. New money. Martinez had background and experience. He knew the ropes. He was born into wealth and status. He didn't acquire it by questionable means yesterday.   
  
"But… I think Captain Ellington has a larger fortune, with all due respect, sir…"   
  
"True."  
  
"…and he's ruthless. A former pirate."  
  
"And so was Francis Drake, your point, chap?"  
  
"It's anybody's game."  
  
***  
  
Smith's head was pounding. A mix of alcohol and frustration had brought on a massive headache. He and Lon were sitting in silence, trying to figure out what to do. He'd been spending too much time with Lon lately…   
  
"John… there's just one thing I don't understand…"   
  
Sighing, John rubbed his face, "What now?"  
  
"When the guard's were going to shot him dead on the noose… why did you save him?"  
  
"What?"   
  
"Ratcliffe. You saved him. I don't think the fountain could'a saved him if they'd blown his head clear off his shoulders…"  
  
John didn't answer immediately. He'd spent night after night since the hanging trying to figure out exactly why he'd saved Governor Ratcliffe and still wasn't certain. Sighing, he answered as best he could, "Human actions can't always be explained, Lon. Sometimes we just… lash out and act reflexively. To tell you the truth, I'm not sure what I was thinking. Subconsciously, though, I have a feeling it had to do with his journal. Before I learned he was the author… I… I thought I'd found someone to hold my soul's hand. My best friend. I floored me to learn it was HIM… yet, Ratcliffe or no…" He trailed off, unsure what he was trying to say. He'd have been better off to leave the last part out. "Never mind. That's not how I meant it to come across. I just… I have no idea why I did it, Lon."   
  
He turned away and went back to staring into space. Ally Ellington was running for Governor, Ratcliffe was his soul friend and he had a hang over. To say nothing of the fountain ready to ruin the world. Life was a bitch.   
  
***  
  
Bread and water was the typical meal, save Sunday's special breakfast. However, this morning Ratcliffe and Ralegh were sharing a little tea Wiggins had smuggled in the previous visit. It was plain, poor man's tea, but tea nonetheless.   
  
Ignoring his moldy bread for the moment, Ratcliffe decided to finally discuss their problem. "Walter, old fellow, we really need to discuss this strange habit you have of appearing in my room at night unannounced without explanation. Whatever possesses you to frighten me so?"   
  
Walter's eyes cast down immediately, almost ashamed. "I'm very sorry, John. I'm just lonely. Night is quite different from day around here. I really can't help myself."  
  
Disturbed, Ratcliffe chocked in his tea. Flustered, he finally returned with, "Well, I hope you realize I'm not-"  
  
"Oh no!" Ralegh followed his thoughts. "I'm not homosexual, despite heresy. I'm just lonely for companionship…"  
  
"That's why your wife's up here, isn't it?"   
  
Ralegh smiled sadly. "She's not really with us, John."   
  
The Governor assumed Walt was referring to her mental deterioration - how wrong he was. However, before he could speak, the door burst open and a sing-song Wexford Smyth had come bearing gifts.  
  
"Ratcliffe, dear fellow! Pleasure to see you, old boy! I was in the area and decided to drop by!"   
  
Wiggins, overwhelmed with boxes and bags, gave an expression over the Count's shoulder that implied the frivolous noble was just bored and wanted to humor lunatics. He'd probably been to Bedlam that morning and been inspired. The Governor exchanged a similar expression with Ralegh, but his friend seemed uneasy and distracted.   
  
Wexford-Smyth dropped his bags and began examining the place, looking at the ceiling in the pointless way people do. "Wow, so this is Ralegh tower…"  
  
"Thrills and chills in one…" Wiggins muttered, struggling with his load. Bethlehem Hospital, or Bedlam, always left him with a sour disposition. It was literally a zoo with human exhibits. A zoo of caged lunatics. Smyth had poked a crazed cannibal with a long pole, bought the warped art of a mad rapist, fed many madmen as though they were monkeys and lastly, bought little crafts from a woman who had tried to assassinate a royal with a butter knife. Ah, to be a tourist.   
  
The Count twirled, face still to the ceiling, as he yodeled loudly, the sound echoing. "How delightful!"  
  
Ratcliffe was tempted to roll his eyes, but resisted. Smyth had brought gifts and he was quite desperate for them. As Wiggins continued to struggle, the servant noticed the open window and they exchanged an expression appropriate to a servant failing and a master cheating. Wiggins closed the window, which hurt, because he'd counted on the fresh air and view for a few more days…   
  
Realizing Ralegh was still present and quite uncomfortable, he decided it best to continue their conversation later. Smiling reassuringly, he patted his old friend's knee, "We'll resume later, dear fellow."  
  
Ralegh smiled back weakly, "Yes, I suppose that would be best."  
  
"Are you alright?"  
  
"Well…" Walter glanced at Wexford-Smyth, who was staring, and looked away clearing his throat, "Yes. Um, quite alright, thank you. Until later, John. Adieu, dear friend."  
  
Ratcliffe smiled. A real friend. It was nice to gloat before Wiggins and Wexford. "Adieu, dear friend." He repeated, warm for the wrong reason - pride. He gestured his farewell and turned to his visitors… however… Wexford-Smyth was still staring, trying to suppress his delight. Wiggins looked uneasy, as though something was wrong.   
  
"Gentlemen?"  
  
"Governor…" the Count tried to speak gravely, but couldn't hide his excitement. "Who were you just talking to?"  
  
Ratcliffe was confused, certain the pair had met. "Walter Ralegh. My best friend." Who else would it be? It was called Ralegh Tower!  
  
Wiggins hung his head in shame. Wexford-Smyth was beside himself - what entertainment! "Walter Ralegh?" he repeated, turning to his downcast servant. He didn't even bother to hide his smile now. "Wiggins, this is absolutely incredible. You never even mentioned-"  
  
"What? You've never met? Goodness man. What-"  
  
"No, no, no…" Wexford's voice was growing shrill. "You don't understand. We've certainly met." This was incredible.   
  
Ratcliffe lost his temper. "What is going on?"  
  
Wexford grabbed Wiggins, excited further. "He's about to pitch a fit! Oh, I had hoped for a fit…"  
  
The Governor reddened, but Wiggins stepped forward, attempting to explain… "Sir, I… I had always let it slide… but, I'm afraid… due to the Count's comments… that's no longer possible…"  
  
"What are you-"  
  
"Walter Ralegh's been dead for years." 


	10. We All Fall Down

WHERE PONCE DE LEON FAILED…  
Chapter Ten: We All Fall Down   
  
***  
  
Disclaimer:   
  
Disney owns all the Pocahontas jazz, ladies and gents. History makes up a good portion, as well - my eternal inspiration - however, admittedly, there are SERIOUS anachronisms and inaccuracies. (I have to make it all work somehow!) I make up the rest and it's all mine. ^_^  
  
***  
  
A/N: (Really long, but necessary. Sorry folks!)  
  
IMPORTANT --- I botched up big time last chapter!!! I almost removed it altogether to rewrite and… well… I eventually WILL. For now, we'll just carry on with the correction. My plot still works regardless. The problem? Governors are appointed NOT elected. APPOINTED! Ouch. I feel seriously stupid, people. Sorry! Again, I promised you major inaccuracies, so hey, it's all good. Just coming through. ^_^ Um, ya… we'll ignore it for now and I'll change the effected parts of Chapter 9 before I write Chapter 12. (I've got 10 and 11 already now and I wanna get them posted!) RESEARCH people - I didn't research until AFTER the fact. Serves me right… But, MAN, even my CHAPTER TITLE is wrong… LOL!!   
  
Secondly, just so you know, Count Wexford Smyth wasn't acting strangely at all last chapter. He was acting like people apparently acted in that society towards insanity. It was entertainment. Bethlehem Hospital (Bedlam), an asylum much like a prison, was like a human zoo. People went to watch the lunatics, hoping to observe abnormal behavior. They had their fun in various ways and even bought souvenirs. Totally normal to them. IN FACT, get this - Court Jesters were crazy (or just pretending to be crazy for a cushy job). The king kept a lunatic on hand for entertainment. It was a HUGE thing for these people. Anywho, to clear up any further doubt - Wex visits Ratcliffe for entertainment. He WANTS the guy to talk to himself and pitch fits. He's not weird - though he IS a half wit. ^_^   
  
I recently watched Pocahontas II again and realized all this amazing stuff I could'a done! I mean, come on - that line about hanging! You know… Ratcliffe, Smith, ledge, beginning… MAN! Hm… maybe I can work it in somehow later… probably not… drats! The opportunity was absolutely missed! Seriously, people: DRATS! (BTW, That movie kills everything Ratcliffe for me. Like, he had a good strategy with the bear baiting… but… he just wasn't the same guy to me. I DUNNO. I really shouldn't talk. I mean, I have him different - but that's only because he's lost his mind. LOL! Chapter One was like Ratcliffe, IMHO. He was sane then. Anyway, you'll have to keep reading to see how he ends up…)  
  
OH, one more thing! (Ya, I'm STILL going, folks.) Ralegh was a real guy. An explorer. Heavily involved in the Virginia stuff. He was in the court's inner circle until James took the thrown and, well… he spent 12-13 years in a tower. I don't want to ruin my story, but I will say this = he was executed for treason.   
  
LAST THING, I promise! My take on history may be different from yours. My sources may be different from your sources. There are so many opinions on everything out there! Everywhere you look there's different facts. It's difficult to even define 'fact' when it comes to this stuff. History is just one of those things - you never ever know anything for sure. You've got no proof of anything. You weren't standing there. Almost all history is only testimony anyway. How do we know these people didn't embellish in their journals, gents? AND THEN… don't even get me started on BIAS on all levels - primary, secondary… Alright, alright! So you have to build enough of a case to ASSUME… (I'm mean, we've gotta figure out SOMETHING!) BUT HEY, whatever. I could go on all day about Collingwood and Carr, it's all good.   
  
K, NOW I'm done. FINALLY. Thanks for your patience, guys! We can start…  
  
***  
  
"Chris, how could you do this to us? … Chris!?"  
  
***  
  
King James had been pacing for hours, his advisors watching uneasily. Hours. The guy had been at it for hours - an utter wreck over the fountain of youth crisis. Insiders had managed to spin doctor a great deal of the situation, but everything public was impossible to erase. Again and again he kept kicking himself for not accepting the gift when it was offered freely. Ratcliffe, the idiot, had offered him the fountain. He'd offered him some water on the spot. Hadn't he?  
  
Muttering to himself, frustrated, James circled, flaring his arms occasionally. "Of all the years of lies… all the LIES… that insolent ass had to pick THIS time to tell the TRUTH! Blast him, blast him straight to the pits of Hell! How could ANYONE have known? He was the type to lie about the weather just for the sake of it! How could anyone have been expected to believe such a tall tale?… especially from HIM… I wouldn't have believed an honest man! How… he… ERRR… DAMN IT!! He's a liar… Why'd he have to be telling the truth THIS time? WHY?…"  
  
Stopping, he turned on his men, fuming, "Don't just STAND there! Think of something! SAY something! For the love of all that's HOLY, gentlemen, what am I favoring you for?! To watch me squirm like half dead prey!?!"   
  
Startled, his advisors exchanged ruffled glances, lost for words.  
  
Cooling a little, James added, "I suppose we've covered the situation well. The public doesn't realize he was telling the truth. That he really WAS John Ratcliffe after all. To them he was just some important foreigner who refused to hang. I'm sure some myth about foreign, savage hangings will shut them all up…"  
  
An older advisor risked his head - "Pardon, your grace, but… the public is a scattered mob. A crazed mass of a thousand voices, a thousand thoughts, a thousand backgrounds and a thousand biases. They all have their own take on the situation. They all think something different."  
  
Following him up, a younger enthusiast added, "They all have their own personal takes on everything we ever tell them about anything! We can't paint them all with the same brush and think the situation is all over. We can expect anyone, let alone, EVERYONE to believe what we tell them."  
  
After a pause, the older man resumed, "Your grace… I can tell you right now… the majority believe in the fountain. They may not know much about the Ratcliffe scenario… but they want to believe in eternal youth. It gives a downtrodden public some hope, sire. Whether they understand his predicament or not… they know he's in that tower. That idiot Wexford-Smyth visits him."  
  
"Sire…" a third voice entered, a charming Spanish accent. "Agreeing with all previously stated, I must reinforce - The people don't think collectively. It's impossible to predict the reaction of a mob. They demand satisfaction."  
  
"I get it, I get it, I get it!" James was impatient. "Tell me something worthwhile, Martinez!"  
  
The charming, former Spaniard, smiled… "Excellency, our spin doctoring was not in vain. It will keep the people at bay while we act…"  
  
"Act?" James blinked.  
  
"Yes, sire, we must act." he insisted diplomatically. "If we don't find the fountain, you can rest assured the Spanish will."  
  
***  
  
Ratcliffe sat in lonely silence. The room seemed darker and colder these days. He didn't even bother to light a fire anymore. Half the time he wondered if the fire had even been real… the times Walter had lit it…  
  
He shook his head. Why did everything always fall back to that?   
  
Sighing, he sipped dusty water, realizing how much he missed his old friend. There had never been dust or cold stone walls when he'd lived with Walter. Lived in the fantasy. He hadn't lived in a prison then. He'd lived in a lush suite. Several days ago, Wiggins had delivered the crushing blow - Walter Ralegh was dead. His presence in the tower wasn't real. It just wasn't real. Since he'd learned the truth… Walter had never returned. He was all alone, the place deserted… a dusty prison room… nothing but a bed, a bench off the far wall, a little table and chairs, a fire place… very primitive. Not like the wonderful three room dream. Nothing like it. That had been beautifully furnished. Wall paper, carpets… the food had been the only thing real. He could remember taking the suite for granted, knowing every detail by memory, having been there a month. He still knew it all. He could see it in his mind's eye even now. LORD, how he missed it. He wanted it back. He wanted the Raleghs back!  
  
The Raleghs' bedroom wasn't even there. He stared at the cob webbed stone wall. There was no longer a door. There was nothing. He sat on the dirty floor all alone, broken hearted. It hadn't been real. Any of it. When had he lost his mind? How had it happened? When did the fantasy start? Had he always seen the room that way? As far as he could remember - wait, when did Walter first come? Had he always…? He didn't know. He had no answers. None. The beginning was haze. He just didn't know.  
  
Walter Ralegh had been his friend for years. Walter had stood by him through thick and thin… naturally he'd create his dear ally in his imagination to stay with him through his misery. Yes, it was all perfectly logical. He'd created the fantasy as some sort of comfort. Now that the illusion was ripped away… he was utterly alone and utterly depressed - MISERABLE. So miserable he was losing the will to live. Yes, Walter had provided the will to-  
  
Sitting in sheer silence for a few moments, he whispered, "Walter?"   
  
Nothing. He was alone. All alone. Even to sit with Ralegh in the dusty, stone tower would be wonderful. In truth, the perks had been nice… but all he really wanted was his friend. He didn't want to rot away all alone in prison. Forgotten. He wanted his friend…   
  
His friend was dead. Gone forever. FOREVER. What if he really did live forever? He'd be all alone in his wretched tower forever… all alone and forgotten… unloved… ALONE… forever…   
  
"Walter?"   
  
He sat, hoping with all he had that perhaps… perhaps… Oh, to be crazy again… how he would do anything to be crazy again… forever with a friend… the delusion was a GIFT… he'd do anything… insanity… forever…  
  
He snapped. Shrieking, he hurled his glass across the room. It shattered against the opposing wall, the sound echoing in the dirty darkness. Continuing to screech he slammed his chairs… slammed them to bits… the table went next… he shrieked again and again… beating the life out of ANYTHING he could get his hands on! Finally, he hit the floor on his knees crying - REALLY crying - loudly, racked with pain…  
  
***  
  
Darkness… Voices… invisible little girls… their voices singing…   
  
"Ring around the rosy, a pocket full of posies…"  
  
Darkness. Such terrifying, burning darkness… death everywhere…  
  
"…a tissue, a tissue…"  
  
***  
  
Wiggins stumbled up the stairs, arms filled with groceries. Still nervous, he was again recalling Jerry's opinion of towers. He couldn't help but wonder - WAS it insanity? Perhaps there was more to this Walter Ralegh business then- He shook his head. No, he didn't believe in ghosts.  
  
Walter Ralegh may have been executed after spending many, many years in that very room… but… surely…   
  
Sighing, the young man unlocked the old door, trying to recall if he'd witnessed any evidence of another presence in the room…  
  
Entering, he expected more of the same. Instead, he screamed.   
  
There was blood EVERYWHERE.  
  
***  
  
"…we all fall down…"  
  
***  
  
The beautiful gelding was so red he appeared black, yet, certain lights caught his metallic glory magnificently. A gorgeous specimen. How the count loved to watch him run wildly about the paddock. He'd been unreachable as a stallion… practically a Spaniard's mustang, yet now he was the finest hunter on the field.  
  
Racing, proud as pleasure to be the Huntsmen, Wexford-Smyth blew his horn. The hounds raced onward, rushing through hedge after hedge after a hare… The rabbit, small and light brown, skimmed under the bushes quickly and lightly… so much for one little hare… yet, he wouldn't have it any other way.  
  
Unexpectedly, a fox burst out from the fence line, startled. The hounds, forgetting their originally target, turned on their heels, surprising the vixen and Smyth alike.  
  
His precious horse, equally startled, semi-reared as it turned about, racing after them. He went to blow his horn, when suddenly, more surprising still, a dappled gray pony rushed up to the fence from the far field.   
  
"Master! Master!" a boy panted. "It's Wiggins. Something's wrong. He-"  
  
Without hesitation or a single word, the noble broke from the hunt, leaving his fellows bewildered. Something was drastically wrong for the likes of Count Wexford-Smyth to brake away from a social without an explanation…  
  
***  
  
"Why would anyone leave a lunatic with glass?"   
  
Wiggins wanted to just fade away. The doctor would NOT shut up. He kept pressing the issue again and again. Yes, it was all his fault. It couldn't be more clear and he couldn't possibly feel more terrible for it. Lip quivering, he wondered who he'd have to answer to.   
  
"A glass…" the professional repeated, packing his bag in the hard, rushed way people do when their emotionally charged. "It was just a matter of time before he broke it and went at himself… A bloody glass, for the love of Saint Pete…"  
  
Wiggins grimaced as the doctor slammed the door, gone. His head down, he realized Wexford-Smyth was watching him. The count found it all so fascinated. He wanted the story. He sat waiting for something - anything - to be said…   
  
Finally, Wiggins muttered, "There was blood everywhere, yet he was perfectly conscious. He just sat there… like everything was fine. Normal. That didn't rattle me though. Not really. We've been through a lot together, so… that was nothing. What got me was… when they took him, he put up such a fight. It was so unexpected. He'd been so dazed before, just sitting there, he'd been calm and… I don't know - passive…" Not sure where he was going, he continued to narrate. "It's just wild, sir… His own blood just EVERYWHERE and he still had fight in him. After all his wailing about the tower being stuck in the tower, especially after he lost Ralegh… and, I mean, after taking such means to escape it… he… he didn't want to leave it. He clung to that doorway… his hands… they pulled… and… good LORD… He didn't cry for Walter. I thought he would, but he didn't. When they dragged him away… he was kicking and screeching for someone else. Someone called Chris."   
  
Wexford-Smyth looked away, thinking. The story was pretty good. Wiggins has rambled and mumbled, but the melodramatic was great…  
  
Risking a glance, Wiggins ventured, "What's going to happen now?"  
  
Smyth smiled, "The entire scenario is nothing outrageous, dear fellow. Suicide's common among prisoners. Especially those lacking sanity. Besides, tower prisoners are typically unwanted. I'm sure no one cares one way or the other. In my opinion, his violent demise is inevitable. He'll be executed somewhere down the road, believe me." Seeing Wiggins wasn't convinced, he added, "It matters very little either way."  
  
***  
  
"WHAT!?!" James bellowed, slamming from his throne.   
  
"Sire…" a startled Smyth fell to his knees. He'd never seen the king in such a state. Alarmed he began to stutter, but what was he to say?   
  
"Count, shut up, shut up - just SHUT UP!" James nearly stuck him.  
  
The enraged monarch froze, however, thinking. After a long, frightening pause, he turned away and instantly back again, directly into the young man's face. "You have NO idea how close - no idea how CLOSE - we just came to disaster!"  
  
Turning away again, shaking and sputtering, he began to pace in his frustrated way. He rubbed his temples, his pace quickening. Quickening still, a twitch entered his expression. As the young aristocrat watched… he realized his ruler had serious issues…   
  
Shaking his wrists, as though having a serious spasm he was unaware of, the royal finally spoke. "He can't remain in that tower any longer. After much advising, my best have informed me we have to make him happy. Comfortable. This shocking episode confirms it. They're right. He's… a danger to himself in that unhappy place. He must, absolutely MUST, return to himself. Recover his sanity. We have very important questions he must be capable of truthfully answering."  
  
Now confused, the half wit felt he was being exposed to information unmeant for him. Why was the king divulging-  
  
"I'm bringing you into the fold because… well, frankly, your man servant has a special connection with him. Living with you and your attendant will straighten him out."  
  
Smyth nearly bit his tongue off. Eyes wide, he could say nothing.  
  
"As we speak he's being relocated to your Estate, Count. The best doctors of the civilized world will be coming and going, working with him constantly. I want his mind back and I want it back NOW. Every moment we wait the Spaniard's get a little closer. They've conquered all the territory down there. My people tell me there isn't much time…"  
  
What… the hell… is he talking about…?   
  
The noble, still on his knees, watched his sovereign pace, helpless. As much as he loved the idea of a personal jester… he knew it wasn't going to be like that. Not at all. Firstly, this wasn't a fun, comical madman. No, no - this was a miserable, suicidal, DANGEROUS madman. Secondly, he would be VERY high maintenance. He had to be kept not only healthy, but HAPPY. Entertained. His every whim met. He needed constant, intense attention. He needed all the best of everything - first class treatment. He would absorb Wiggins and eat up a lot of funds he tended to blow betting Equine… Lastly, people would be coming and going. Unwanted people. Doctors and such. It would all seem so scandalous. Such negative whisper would arise. It would be dreadful, just dreadful! His life was about to get seriously complicated. In an instant he'd turned from a carefree fool… to a man with serious responsibility to his king. To a man pulled into the inner circle, the lime light. The dangerous game. Damn.  
  
Though he was a cheerful, good natured, generally optimistic fellow, Wexford-Smyth went away that afternoon in quite a mood. Down on himself and the world. Though he wasn't blessed with an abundance of common sense - he wasn't STUPID. Even a half wit has just that, half the average wit. So he was careless, ditzy? He wasn't TRULY stupid. He knew the extreme complication and danger surrounding him now. Court was a delicate balance. A dangerous game. One day you're in favor, the next you're disgraced. He'd managed to stay outside it all until now… now he was pulled out front and center. He had to play the game. He could lose it all in an instant. He could lose his very life in an instant. He could end up like Walter Ralegh… destroyed…   
  
He'd watched them live in fear for years - the aristocracy of court - most there through ambition, some forced like himself. He'd watched them live in fear, knowing they couldn't slip up; they had to do everything just right. Pretension was ran rabid like… like plague…  
  
Plague…  
  
***  
  
"…a-husha… a-husha… we all fall down…"  
  
***  
  
"I'm dying, Chris. I'm dying and I can't tell you…"  
  
***  
  
Awaking in warm, comfortable surroundings, the former Governor snuggled deep into his comfiture. It felt heavenly. Smiling, he rolled, burying his face. It was wonderful not to feel the pain of his wounds anymore. He hadn't expected it to leave so suddenly… but, now that it was gone, he was grateful.  
  
Time passed slowly and finally he snuck a peek out into the world. A strangely furnished room. VERY old fashioned Italian décor of the middle to lower class variety. Yawning, he rubbed his eyes, starting to call out to someone. His stopped, mid-utter, a blank slate. What name was he to say? Where the hell was he?  
  
Confused, it dawned upon him that the fantasy had returned. He loved the idea… yet, at the same time was almost unhappy, for he knew it wasn't real. There was an awkwardness about it that had never been there before… a grounding sense of reality…  
  
He heard whispering in the hall. Two voices - one male, the other female. The Raleghs? He strained to make out their muffled conversation, but couldn't catch a single syllable. Tired, he dropped back down into his bed. Forget it. Whatever.   
  
Suddenly, a phrase was crystal clear - "No, you mustn't! He's not ready! He's not-"  
  
The door burst open and a short, smiling blond sprang into the room, his very presence screaming silent energy. "Barty!" he cried, his smile enormous and extremely cheerful. "Barty, my brother, how are you?"  
  
Perplexed, Ratcliffe said nothing. He stared blankly, unsure.   
  
An older woman, clearly Italian, loomed behind, irritated. "I told you he wasn't ready. I told-"  
  
"Yes, yes, yes…" the young man gestured for her to leave him alone, not hearing a word. He returned his focus to the bed, eyes bright, "My brother, you look well! How wonderful! How do you feel?"   
  
"Fine." Ratcliffe was honest. "The pain's gone."  
  
"Brilliant!" the fellow was all the more excited. He began to speak quickly, "I've made all the preparations, just knowing you'd come through. Everything's set. You leave first light tomorrow. I'm sure you remember. The king doesn't expect you, but I've handled that as well. I have SUCH a plan, my friend. SUCH a plan! Everything is set, I promise. I promise you, Barty, this time we'll get it! This will ensure our adventure! The adventure of a lifetime! I can't tell you how excited I am! I can't tell you what this means to me! To us! To the civilized world!"  
  
Who the hell are you, buddy?   
  
Yet, he couldn't ask. As usual, he had to play dumb until the delusions passed. However, this was different. He wasn't feverish. He truly felt fine. Perhaps this was a new Walter. He'd often felt fine with Walter. Regardless, he was clueless as to how he should treat the situation…  
  
The blond was still flailing his arms, pacing quickly in small circles, extremely excited. He was practically shouting, his gestures wild - eyes on fire. His smile was so large… it was… amazing. He wasn't really attractive… yet, somehow, through his energy - his ENERGY - he was beautiful. Absolutely beautiful.  
  
"I know you…" Ratcliffe whispered, the haze taking form. "I know you…"  
  
The other froze mid-stride and flail, taken aback. He found his voice, "Of course, Barty. I'm you're brother…"  
  
"He's still delirious. He STILL doesn't recognize you. I-"  
  
Both brothers ignored the woman, gazes locked. Ratcliffe searched himself, knowing he knew the man. Knew him well. Loved him like a brother.  
  
His eyes widened with realization, remembering his name…  
  
"Chris?"  
  
*** 


	11. Kittens, Music & My Brother Chris

WHERE PONCE DE LEON FAILED…  
Chapter 11: Kittens, Music & My Brother Chris  
  
***  
  
Disclaimer: Pocahontas stuff is the property of the Walt Disney Company. History and myth are responsible for much of the rest… but a few things are actually mine… ^_^  
  
A/N:  
  
I'll try to keep these shorter in future, folks. Sorry about the insanity last chapter. ^_^  
  
If you want more PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE review. Every chapter. Please? I love reviews. It's serious motivation, people. When I read new reviews I'm inspired and I set straight to work. Honestly!  
  
BTW, an excellent point was just raised. Yes, I overuse ellipses. ^_^ However, in friendly defense of this effect: 1) It's a good way to pull off stream of consciousness - which is my style. 2) It works for insanity/delirium - again, this story. 3) I use it to delay the reader. It stops them from hitting stuff before I want them too. It's emphasis! 4) Sometimes when I try other punctuation in the spot and it just doesn't work for me. Seems wrong. BLAH, BLAH, BLAH - I'm sure I could come up with more, but who cares, right? ANYWAY, on the other end of the spectrum - some people find it really annoying and I respect that. My current English teacher isn't too big on it, that's for sure. ^_^ CONCLUSION: It's my style, but hey, I'll try to cut down - unfortunately, I write however it comes out. Thanks for the feedback! ;)  
  
Don't worry, those asking about Jamestown and Pocahontas - just wait and see… ^_^  
  
WARNING: This chapter isn't GREAT. I didn't edit AT ALL. In a hurry. It's almost certainly FILLLED with errors. If it's too terrible, I might repost with editing. Sorry if it's terrible, guys!  
  
***  
  
Christoforo was grinning, so excited he could barely speak. He'd recited the speech ten thousand times and now, as they bustled along the dock, he was going over it yet again. The word's came out in a thrilled bluster, however and eventually, wild gestures and all, he gave up and starting babbling about adventure, glory, honour and all the rest of it. "Praise the Lord!" he glowed. "Praise the Lord!"  
  
Barty, once Ratcliffe, chuckled. He loved Chris. Loved him more than anything or anyone in the world. His little brother WAS his world. His sun, his moon, his rain, his shine… his everyone and everything. (His mind rambled on worse than Chris!) Yes, he'd missed his brother. How could he have forgotten? All was coming together now, thankfully, and after this voyage they would be together always, sailing for adventure. Life was perfect.  
  
Chris hugged him, radiant. "Now, just remember - if the deal starts to turn-"  
  
"I know, I know… the message from God, I know…" the former Governor chuckled. "The vision-"  
  
"Dream, dream, DREAM…" Chris' arms wind milled in humorous panic.   
  
"Right, right - nothing unchristian. I'll remember." He smiled.  
  
"Oh Barty…" the young man was so thrilled he looked as though he might burst. "I only wish I could go with you, but I've to carry out my part of the plan…"  
  
"Right, right." Barty couldn't recall a time he'd smiled so hard and so sincere. He loved Chris more than ANYTHING. Nothing else existed to him anymore. Nothing.   
  
Yes, everything prior - that ugly English Governor business - that hadn't been real. A fountain of youth? Ha. Right. He was Bartholomew Colombo and always had been. He'd just been sick a few days and gotten lost in fantasy. Now he was back in action and their dreams would come true!  
  
Approaching the gang plank, Barty stopped and turned back to his brother. Chris just beamed, proud and pleased. "Oh, my dear brother - our day has finally come. How they laughed at us. How they mocked us. How they… they…" his expression suddenly turned dark - a shadow seemed to fall over his face. "We'll show them all."  
  
Unexpectedly, his energy bounced back, his face up again. "How glorious it will be to prove them all wrong, Barty! They'll soon see WE were right and that that fool Vespucci - the IDIOT - is a fraud! That we… WE-"  
  
"Yes, Chris…" he touched his brother's neck with his cool hand in a way that instantly silenced him. How had he instinctively known to simmer the young man like that? He knew his brother so well. His living mirror. How could he have forgotten everything? The youth's throat was feverishly warm with energy… fever…   
  
Before he could think further, Chris blurted - terrible with goodbyes - "Well, you'd better leave. Write from London."  
  
"The King of England will see things our way, Chris. I promise."  
  
"And a Colombo never breaks a promise." Christoforo winked, stepped back as the plank was removed.  
  
***  
  
A hard flash struck Bartholomew and he saw it all. He saw the jolly roger. The screaming, the canons… the fire… the invasion… the death…  
  
The water was dark and menacing… with death…   
  
***  
  
Blinking, thoroughly shocked, Barty returned to reality. His eyes met his brothers'… Chris was concerned. He couldn't answer though. He watched the plank being dragged away and knew the end… his end…   
  
He would walk the plank.  
  
***  
  
"…a-husha… a-husha… we all fall down…"  
  
***  
  
"Barty?" a flash of worry conquered all beautiful energy.   
  
I'm going to die, Chris. I'm going to die and I can't tell you. I-  
  
"I'm fine, brother. I'll write with good news. I'll be back soon."  
  
Ropes were tossed to the docks about Chris. He was fooled. His smile returned and he winked again, turning to go. Whistling. He was whistling. He didn't know. He couldn't know…  
  
I'm going to die. I'll never see you again.  
  
"Chris!"   
  
The boy turned, surprised.  
  
"I love you."  
  
"I love you too, Barty. God's speed."  
  
With that, they parted. Never to-  
  
***  
  
Wexford-Smyth. He was staring blankly at Wexford-Smyth. The aristocrat sat across the tea table, glancing up from a letter, an eyebrow raised.   
  
What the hell…?  
  
Blinking, Ratcliffe was caught off guard as a distracting Wiggins set another tea before him.   
  
This couldn't be real. Where was Chris?  
  
Oblivious to his surroundings, he knocked the tea on the floor, the glass breaking loudly. Wiggins' back stiffened, clearly frustrated. That was the eighth cup he'd shattered this sitting.  
  
"Well… fix him another…" Wexford-Smyth was impatient, his wonderful personality transformed by a month of stressful misery. "He'll get the idea eventually…"  
  
What a stupid, stupid idea. His tone border lining what would be considered frustrated disrespect, Wiggins replied, "This isn't working."  
  
The count returned to his letter, answerless. The handsome noble was still good at heart, he was just… spent. Wiggins wasn't too far from the mark himself. Exhausted and silently aggravated, Wiggins softly fell to the floor and began clearing the mess. Again.  
  
Thinking, Ratcliffe watched Wexford read. Where was-  
  
Sighing, the count muttered, "Well… things are uncomfortably close, Wiggins. It could go either way with Martinez and Ellington. Both are kissing up like French lovers. Either could be appointed at this rate… I suppose I shouldn't mention it in the presence of our GUEST… yet, no one should worry - he's blank. Useless. Not there…" His tone rose with his temper, "You not there are you? You'll never be there! It's been a bloody MONTH and nothing! Nothing!"  
  
"Is it from Chris?" Ratcliffe was plain, catching him off guard.   
  
Very surprised, Wexford-Smyth just stared.   
  
Suddenly - "Give me that map! It's ours!" he snatched the letter.  
  
"You know… this Chris business is growing old…" the count forced a charming smile through gritted teeth, snatching it back. "At least the Walter Ralegh bit was good for a laugh…"   
  
"Walter…" the former Governor remembered quietly. He sat in silence a few moments, thinking sadly before Wiggins set a ninth cup before him. Expecting it to fall, the servant was surprised to find a question instead - "Dear boy, what happened to Walter?"  
  
Wiggins just couldn't deal. He just could not deal. He couldn't tell him AGAIN. He couldn't watch him crumple AGAIN…  
  
Suddenly - "Give me that map! It's ours!" he snatched the letter.  
  
Instant replay. Replayed exactly. EXACTLY. He was truly mad.  
  
Almost snarling, Smyth snatched his letter again, determined to condition the brute. Determined to finish his letter.   
  
"Vespucci! You lying, stealing BASTARD!"  
  
He slapped Wexford-Smyth.  
  
***  
  
Fire… burning… black death… darkness… voices…  
  
"Ring around the rosy…"   
  
Disgusting puss… round, pink-red boils from HELL…  
  
Burn them. Burn them all…  
  
***  
  
"Of course, sire." John Smith wasn't pleased. After finally getting his audience with King James, he found himself involved in the fountain conspiracy in a way most unexpected. On a happier note, the peanut butter fudge was fantastic!   
  
Sitting comfortably, James continued, "Once we have our answers as to the location, etc, your expedition will be sent out without hesitation, therefore, I can't make this point clear enough, Smith: Be here. Be ready at a moment's notice." He hesitated, sipping tea, before adding, "I'm so glad you came to see me. You're just the man for the job…"  
  
Another sip, silence… "I realize you have a history with Ratcliffe, but I need you onside. Therefore, I'll be candid - Get over it."  
  
***  
  
Screaming, crying… terror… RATS… so many RATS…  
  
"…a pocket full of posies…"   
  
Breath it in, damn it! BREATH!  
  
Save me, flowers… SAVE ME, PLEASE… THEY'LL BURN ME ALIVE!  
  
***  
  
It was well after midnight now. Why the hell wasn't the man in bed? Extremely tired and uneasy, Wiggins was walking quickly, a lantern raised. The paintings looked so frightening in shadow… all ancestors of the Count… Where the hell was-  
  
Something. A sound. Whipping around, he realized he'd missed the Library. Backtracking quickly, he saw the door was slightly ajar, a tiny light creeping into the corridor. Frowning, he stepped forward, opening it silently. Though he knew Ratcliffe well and felt he had power of the sick man… he still didn't like dealing with lunatics. They were capable of absolutely anything.  
  
The image of a slain Wexford-Smyth sprawled across a bloody marble floor flashed across his mind. Dismissing it instantly with disturbed disgust, he was in the Library, glancing about. Perhaps he'd heard nothing… it could have been ANYTHING… the wind, the annoying bird…  
  
A dim light over there. Yes. Shadows. Mumbling. Crazed mumbling.   
  
Approaching cautiously, lantern higher still, the boy found the former Governor sitting on the floor - maps and books tossed open all about him. He was searching urgently, feverishly… muttering madly… softly…  
  
"Governor…" Wiggins lowered his light, relieved.   
  
No response. What was he searching for here at this hour?  
  
"Governor?" he repeated, louder with a stern edge.   
  
Ratcliffe glanced at him briefly as he leafed through a fresh text, but paid him little mind.   
  
"Governor!"  
  
Glancing again, he sounded softly stressed, "I can't find Chris."  
  
Sighing, Wiggins actually let his annoyance show. He stepped forward to physically act, when unexpectedly, the man leapt to his feet, books flying. He was so excited he was babbling nonsensically. He held a large manuscript open, overjoyed.   
  
"CHRIS! I'VE FOUND CHRIS!"  
  
Wiggins blinked, confused and then very surprised.  
  
"THIS is your long lost brother?"  
  
No, it wasn't a furniture advertisement, a painting of lambs or anything TOO eccentric…   
  
"Governor…" Wiggins was very tired and it showed. "This can't possibly be your brother. He's been dead a century-"  
  
"I'M DEAD! I LEFT HIM!" Ratcliffe screeched, unexpectedly.   
  
Taken aback, Wiggins took a moment to collect himself, "Very well, Governor. Congratulations on your immediate relation to such a famous explorer…"  
  
The English called him Christopher Columbus.   
  
***  
  
"What? Absolutely preposterous, Wiggins. Don't even jest!" Wexford-Smyth was in better spirits today, pulling away from his servant, his outfit complete. "Everyone knows Vespucci discovered America. Though, I like the idea of having a descendent of Columbus as my personal Fool."  
  
"But, excellency-" Attempting to return to his request.   
  
"No." Wexford was firm, but cheerful. Remembering all too well.   
  
"It took me three hours to coax him to bed. THREE HOURS. I have to come through on my promise. I-"  
  
"He's a lunatic. He won't remember a bribe in the dark of the night. Besides, it'll eat my bird. By the way, enough of your musical therapy from the Dark Ages. Music, indeed. Everyone knows LEACHES are the onlt way. You have to bleed a man to save his mind. HMPH, music… Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to the hunt."  
  
"But-"  
  
"That is all, Wiggins. I'm off. Vespucci. No kitten. No music."  
  
"I can't handle him alone anymore! I-"  
  
The count was gone. Wiggins watched the carriage pull away and wanted to smash something. As his employer was gradually adjusting and returning to himself, but he - Wiggins - was transforming. His patience and cheerful, loving nature was being drained. He was losing himself. He couldn't take care of TWO fools around the clock without full assistance… especially when one saw ghosts and thought he was Barty Columbus!   
  
***  
  
Sneezing… congestion… horrible pain… darkness… BLACK…  
  
"…a tissue, a tissue…"  
  
NO, PLEASE… burning, agony… the mark… the house was marked…   
  
"…a-husha… a-husha…"  
  
Consumption. Mucus. Sneezing… FIRE… the house was MARKED…   
  
***  
  
The magnificent gelding reared, screeching in alarm.   
  
Fire! The field was on fire!   
  
Count Wexford-Smyth saw no fire… he saw nothing, for as the horse screeched, rearing unexpectedly, it hurled him to the ground, stomping down in terror, spooked out of it's mind…  
  
The world was BLACK…   
  
***  
  
"…we all fall down…"  
  
***  
  
Soft classical music played soothingly in the background. Therapeutic music via Wiggins. The garden was alive with light, colour and beauty. Ratcliffe sat playing with a little gray kitten. It was adorable. The music was beautiful. Kitten. Music.   
  
Wexford-Smyth sat on his side, his head bandaged - extremely annoyed.  
  
*** 


	12. Fuller's Secret

WHERE PONCE DE LEON FAILED  
Chapter 12: James Fuller's Secret  
  
***  
  
Disclaimer: This particular Pocahontas and thus included belongs to The Walt Disney Company. Mythology and history make up the majority of the rest, but I do own a few things. Wexford Smyth, for example. ^_^   
  
A/N:  
  
Wow. I haven't updated in ages. All my stories are neglected equally, however, so don't worry. ^_^ UM, relax, though - I never give up on stories. I love this story, but I just get swamped now and again or I have no inspiration. Don't give up on me though, please - I will update as often as I can. Weeks, months - whatever - I will update again someday. Thanks for your patience and understanding. I appreciate it. I also appreciate reviews, pretty please. Awesome motivation, they are.   
  
***  
  
The music played on, emphasizing the beauty of Count Wexford-Smyth's garden. However, the count, nor anyone else, was actually enjoying it. The garden was deserted.   
  
An enraged scream.   
  
Count Wexford-Smyth himself, head bloody and bandaged, slammed from his manor - giving an enormous painting the bum's rush. He hurled it across the lawn, seething. "Get them out! GET THEM ALL OUT NOW!" He broke another on the grass. Then another.   
  
Rushing back inside in a furious frenzy, he continued to fume, "I don't care how much they cost! I don't care how much he wants them! I will not - WILL NOT - have insane, disturbing, frightening, HERETIC-"   
  
As he ran masterpiece after masterpiece from his home, Wiggins was leading several professionals through the side gardens, sheepishly trying to ignore the ruckus. "Right this way, gentlemen." He cleared his throat, opening the side door for them.   
  
An older doctor glanced towards the sound, "I believe he's out back, young man…"  
  
His embarrassment now visible, Wiggins replied, "That's the Count."  
  
Taken aback, the doctors exchanged glances.   
  
Wiggins cleared his throat again, forming an excuse. "He split his skull during a hunt last week. Hasn't been the same since." It was a half truth, anyway.  
  
Understanding, the suits followed him into the side hall. Several corridors later they came upon a large oak door. The study.   
  
"He's locked himself inside…" Wiggins gestured, hesitant.   
  
Knocking on the door, the first practitioner listened, ear to the door. Nothing. The madman was silent. Probably dead. Knocking again, they all waited in professional silence. These men were the kingdom's best, sent from every corner of the countryside to cure the madman or at least pry out the necessary information beyond a reasonable doubt. With insanity there was always that shadow, unfortunately.   
  
They waited in silence… yet, there was nothing. Not a sound.  
  
Back straightening, the kneeling doctor stood slowly, turning to the young servant skeptically - "What exactly happened?"  
  
"Exactly? Well…" Wiggins was sheepish again. "…the Governor ordered some expensive prints. Reproductions of… work my master finds extremely offensive…"  
  
***  
  
Warped images from the very pits of Hell. Demons, monsters, mutant hybrids, frighteningly unorthodox implications - the stuff of nightmares.   
  
The handsome young aristocrat continued to snatch them up, hurling them out onto the fresh green lawn. If anyone, ANYONE, were to see such works on his property, GOOD LORD - the thought was simply unbearable. He was playing the game now. The presence of such heretic concepts would throw him from favor instantly. Besides, they were truly upsetting works. Absolutely unchristian!   
  
Panting, he relaxed, realizing they were all gone. Resting his back absently against a wall, he started to slide down it. He would burn them tonight. An enormous bonfire. Eradicate the nightmares from the very earth altogether. Not a trace would remain. Sliding down the doorframe, he found himself on the floor, his head screeching. Just screeching…  
  
***  
  
"He's convinced he's dying of plague."   
  
"Plague?" the very word alarmed, "Well, is he?"   
  
"I wouldn't know…"  
  
"We'll have to proceed with the utmost caution, gentle-"  
  
"Nonsense." James Fuller, a hot headed young surgeon from one of the colonies forced the door and barged in without hesitation.  
  
Wiggins followed, freezing the instant he laid eyes on all the red. There the madman sat in the middle of the room, working furiously, surrounding by… "OH MY-"  
  
"Relax, it's paint." Fuller was blunt.  
  
Wiggins did relax, seeing the obvious truth. His past with the lunatic had biased him; he was overanxious. Lord, the stuff of ulcers. Nerves shot. Absolutely shot. Dough-boy from Moby Dick.   
  
The former Governor, now an attractive, solid, thirty-something with a dark expression of concentration, was scribbling on a large canvas, paper scattered randomly in red mess. He appeared to have forgotten his Black Death.  
  
"John…" Fuller spoke normally, not gentle, not cautious.   
  
The painter failed to notice his guests, he just kept working feverishly, creating something… red. Fuller watched a moment before he continued - "Good afternoon, John."  
  
John Ratcliffe glanced up now and, upon seeing Fuller, froze. He was splotched with paint. Red all over his face, adding an amazing quality to his deep, intense eyes. He just sat, staring up, caught at something. Caught in the act.  
  
"How do you do?" Fuller was casual.   
  
"Do you see it?" the painter asked softly, so intense.   
  
"I beg your pardon?"  
  
Ratcliffe held up his red canvas. "I can see Hell…"   
  
***  
  
"I have never been SO humiliated… since… since he spoke to people yesterday!" Count Wexford-Smyth was pacing, furiously mortified. Wiggins could scarcely remember a time when he'd been a loveable, carefree half-wit. It had all changed so suddenly. Or had it? "I can't bare a moment more, I tell you, not one moment more! It's all escalated to the point where I can't even entertain without- without, AHH! He's absolutely destroying my social standing! I-I can't STAND this!" He slammed a door and was gone.   
  
Wiggins sighed, scrubbing red paint. Ratcliffe was getting worse and worse… and King James was getting angrier and angrier - at the Count. Between the head injury, the lunatic, the king and all the social pressure, the Count was disappearing. Transforming into a miserable, furious wreck.   
  
He'd started to slip away gradually the first month… then he'd tried to come back, tried to regain himself… and then the accident. The accident had slammed him back and now he was worse than ever. It was hopeless. They were both absolutely doomed… nerves shot…   
  
***  
  
John Smith stepped back, taking the entire estate in. Wow. It was truly something to behold. Wexford-Smyth had inherited well, pity he'd blow it all shortly, the half-wit. The count had failed to make good on their last contract, which was for the best considering King James wanted him on this new project - this quest for the fountain of youth. Wexford-Smyth was expected to cover most of the costs, footing the major bills. He was ever so graciously appointed the main investor. Poor idiot.   
  
As soon as Ratcliffe's sanity returned they could set out…  
  
There was a very good reason Smith and his companions had accepted positions within the fountain quest. A very good reason. When they found the fountain they would see to it that no one EVER found it again. They'd destroy it. It was the only answer. The prospect made him smile. All the stress, all the misery and now the answer - clear as crystal. With peace of mind at last, Ben had gone home until word they were to set out and Lon signed on a crew for a brief voyage, he'd been back by within the week. It wasn't likely John Ratcliffe would improve within six months, let alone a week.   
  
Wiggins greeted him at the gate and John's heart sank a little. The boy had always been so energetic, so full of life - his smile enormous and his excitement with the prospect of another day so vibrant, radiant. Now… his smile was small and hollow. Just a formality, really. His eyes were dead. He was broken. Weeks ago he'd been spent… now he was broken. Such a loving soul shattered, it was a shame - however, as Ben had pointed out - it showed a weak soul… a weak spirit. He was broken and it was all his own fault.   
  
He'd had a beautiful soul… but it hadn't been very strong…  
  
***  
  
"How long has he been sitting there?" Smith watched Ratcliffe. The unstable houseguest sat in the window, staring out over the estate, stroking his gray kitten absently. Just staring…  
  
"Hm?" Wexford-Smyth scarcely glanced up from the letter he was writing. Dipping his quill again, he continued to scratch along, as always, oblivious to the lunatic. Lunacy was just another aspect of day to day life now. He muddled on as best he could.   
  
Repeating, "How long has he been sitting there?"  
  
Indifferent, "Three days."  
  
The Captain took a hard double take.   
  
Finishing his letter, Wexford-Smyth let out a stressed sigh and turned to Smith, forcing mild pleasantry, "Tea?"  
  
***  
  
Extreme heat… green… tropical… jungle… It was all a sleepy, indifferent blur of slipping scenes. Green… plants… ruins, ancient ruins… It was like a dream - he didn't bother to consider anything - he just experienced, barely conscious…   
  
Steps… hundreds of ancient Inca steps… the blaring heat… a room… The air was stale, thousands of years without its natural ventilation… A very plain, very ancient room… empty…  
  
GOLD. He absolutely had to have gold! The plain stone room was empty, no gold, yet… somehow, for some reason… he felt gold. Sensed it. Something had happened here. Something terrible had happened here. Someone had shared his lust for gold within these walls… he sensed them… sensed something terrible had-  
  
It slashed through the sleepy blur, harsh and painful:  
  
"You value your life? Hm, then fill this room with gold…"   
  
It echoed, fading away. Startling, horrible… yet so faint…  
  
"Fill this room with gold or die!"   
  
He winced. It hurt. Something terrible… something unspeakably cruel…  
  
Very far away, outside it all, there was another voice. A voice outside it all. However, he failed to recognize John Smith's voice. Failed to really hear it… yet it was saying, "He's in there somewhere, Count…" It also echoed. Echoed gently through the ages, through the blinding heat. "He's in there somewhere…"  
  
Cringing, shivering… it was so hot, yet so very cold… staring blindly…   
  
Smith - "I wonder what he's thinking about? What he's seeing in there?"  
  
The empty room. The voices echoed, Smith's voice outside it all. Within the chamber, the empty, ancient chamber - which looked as they all always look - was fairly open, sun shining it… yet the air was very stale. The spirits had just been disturbed, the memories… the PAIN…  
  
"Fill this room with gold, damn it, or die!"  
  
Wincing, cringing… he felt the Incan rulers grief… trapped…   
  
"Is this all the gold you fools can muster?"   
  
Doomed. It would never be enough. Absolutely DOOMED.  
  
"Raid your tombs, damn you, fools - strip their dead bodies!"  
  
And raid their sacred tombs they did. Anything to save their king.   
  
"Sorry, pal - just isn't enough… you've got 24 hours…"  
  
Desperation… DESPERATION… damn Spaniards…   
  
"Rip it from your blasted mouths! Just GET IT!"   
  
They managed. Oh, yes, at great cost, great suffering… the Incan people scrounged up enough treasure to fill every inch of the room. Not a pocket of air. Not one pocket. They'd made ransom. THANK GOD.  
  
Trembling… gentle tears of relief… on his knees… the anguish…   
  
Smith, far away Smith - "Something wrong with him, he's-"  
  
A startling, silencing gun shot. It echoed, shattering everything like thunder. All was dark and silent now…   
  
They'd killed him anyway.  
  
***  
  
"Governor?" Smith tried.  
  
Ratcliffe showed no sign of hearing, staring blankly…  
  
Frustrated, John grabbed the cat, which cried out cattishly. Ratcliffe went to strike him, most unexpected, but unlike Smyth, Smith blocked, grabbing his wrist. A fight ensured, though Ratcliffe was no match for Smith. Eventually, screaming in his throat, the loon was pinned.   
  
Wiggins entered with a futile tea tray. Zero reaction to the scene. Totally desensitized, immune to it all. Everyday the same.   
  
"Are you going to stop?" Smith demanded, trying to sound calm.   
  
No answer.  
  
"Are you going to stop?" Smith pronounced carefully, pushing harder.   
  
No answer.  
  
"Don't bother. Consequences mean nothing." Wiggins was blunt.  
  
Smith held a moment longer before slamming the fool down hard in frustration, rising and walking out.  
  
"They killed him anyway!" Ratcliffe screamed after him, sitting up, very angry. "All the gold in the land and they killed him just the same! GOLD IS EVERYTHING AND NOTHING, damn them! DAMN THEM ALL!"  
  
Wiggins sighed, setting down the tray and helping his charge to his trembling feet. "Governor…" - old habits die hard, he'd call the man Governor until the day they died - "I've brought your tea."   
  
Silence and then the fool unexpectedly burst into loud sobs. "There'll never be enough gold, you MONSTERS! All the gold in the world couldn't save me! Gold won't save anyone!"   
  
He cried for a short while and then, as unpredictable as always, just simple fell back to the floor, face first. FACE first with a very loud thud. His face seemed to smuck hard and flat into the floor. Such a maneuver was only possible for one beyond all reason. It was scary.  
  
Silence, a long silence… face in the floor… Wiggins ignored him.  
  
The playful kitten began to bat at the former Governor's hair. Wiggins, setting the tray on the floor beside the loon, sighed - almost impatiently. "Governor…" he indifferently rolled the man over.   
  
Ratcliffe lay blankly, staring at the roof. After a moment his nose began to bleed… silently trickling, the blood touched the floor finishing and Wiggins instantly produced a cloth without reaction. Having his charge sit up, the boy began to treat the nose bleed with a sense of silent duty and dignity.   
  
Finishing, he scarcely noticed when the man spoke, "Tell me, Smith, what happened to Walter?"  
  
"I'm Wiggins, sir."   
  
Silence… and then Wiggins froze, actually quite surprised.  
  
Ratcliffe had recognized Smith. He'd made the connection.   
  
***  
  
"He's not making ANY progress!" Smith was passionate, slamming his hands down on Wexford-Smyth's desk. "We need answers now! The government can't spin doctor this situation much longer - it's on our streets, Count, our STREETS. How long before the Spaniards know? They may ALREADY know! How long before they-"  
  
"CAPTAIN!" Smyth unexpectedly slammed from his seat, furious, the chair hurled back and down. "I have King James and every parliamentarian in the Empire breathing down my neck, pressuring me, BLAMING ME!! I do NOT need you to join their ranks! There is absolutely NOTHING I can do to cure the dolt, believe me. I'm leaving his treatment to the professionals. My interference only HINDERS his rehabilitation, AS DOES YOURS! Doctors are in and out around the clock, the best in the business! This is NOT my fault, damn it, Smith! THIS IS NOT MY FAULT!!"  
  
Taken aback, John said nothing…  
  
Wiggins entered, a young surgeon flanking him indifferently, though he'd certainly heard everything. "Your excellency, Doctor Fuller-"  
  
"Don't ask me, Wiggins, just DON'T. I won't be held responsible. As I'm telling Smith, my decisions are only hindering. Fuller, do whatever you feel best. Its your place, not mine. I'm merely the host, the benefactor. I refuse to make any de-"  
  
"I just need access to your library." Fuller was bold. No title.   
  
Wexford-Smyth blinked. "I see…" After a moment, "Granted. Anything to cure the madman and shut the likes of THIS gentlemen-" he motioned furiously towards Captain Smith, "-the HELL up!"   
  
***  
  
Ratcliffe was crying again. Surgeon James Fuller was silently listening. They sat together on the hall floor, just outside the study. It was so good to finally have him out of the study…  
  
Crying loudly, he was an unkempt mess, though still attractive. God bless the fountain…   
  
"There just isn't enough GOLD, Jim… not enough GOLD…"  
  
Ratcliffe had been crying for nearly three quarters of an hour, babbling incoherently about gold. Fuller wanted to go home, yet sat there nevertheless. Arrogant and amateur, he wanted more than anything to prove all the others wrong. HE would cure John Ratcliffe…  
  
"I couldn't find any gold, Jim… I ravaged the world and found NOTHING! There just isn't enough GOLD, Jim… and even if there was… LORD, OH LORD… it would never be enough for them… NEVER! NEVER!"  
  
"John, please stop now." Fuller was flat, uninterested.  
  
"THIS IS MY LAST CHANCE FOR GLORY!"  
  
"Jim." The surgeon correctly indifferently.   
  
"John, get the hell out of my way - I have to SURVIVE, damn you, I have to fill the room, DAMN YOU, Smith - DAMN YOU STRAIGHT TO HELL! I'LL KILL YOU! I'LL KILL YOU! I'LL-"  
  
"Holy Ghost!" James sprang to his feet, startled. Unsure how to proceed, he literally fled, leaving the lunatic screeching there alone.  
  
***  
  
"Captain, please…" Wiggins attempted to chase down the sea captain, who was leaving, crossing the lawn in quite the huff. "Captain Smith, really, you must understand, Count Wexford-Smyth is under the most extreme circumstances. The stress is unimaginable. Two months ago he was a carefree fellow and now the fate of the world rests on his unprepared shoulders. Everyone is blaming him for everything. He just can't deal. I'm not sure he has the mental facilities to deal, in all seriousness. The stress, the pressure - it's, well it's… not like anything he's ever known. He's such a pretty, carefree thing - like a wild pony. He's not meant to fret. He's not meant-"  
  
Smith stopped, glaring. "Grow up, Wiggins. Just GROW UP."  
  
Screeching, absolute screeching - it came unexpectedly from the open windows of the west wing hall. Flowing easily across the lawn, it was Ratcliffe - "I'LL KILL YOU, SMITH! I'LL KILL YOU! I'LL KILL YOU!"  
  
John Smith motioned indifferently, "You might want to check on that… Hm, he may be back after all…" With that, he left… leaving poor Wiggins to listen to raging, shattering glass and very dangerous screams…  
  
***  
  
The two sat together, painting on very long scrolls. Doctor Fuller used many lovely colors, while Ratcliffe used red. Only red. Painting seemed to calm the maniac. The surgeon, young and bored, had decided to participate himself. Why not? A good way to pass the endless hours of stupid silence - and hey, they might actually bond. Oh, the mind of James Fuller… goodness gracious…   
  
They sat in silence, working away. Glancing at the clock that predictably rested upon the mantle, Fuller realized he would have been having an afternoon snack with his sister at this time normally, had he not become so obsessed with winning. So obsessed with curing John Ratcliffe and the fame and fortune it would bring. Well, HELL, he HAD to be - everyone let him, no one stopped him - the world insisted, in fact. SOMEONE had to, else heads would roll. The king would absolutely KILL them if someone wasn't working on this guy every minute of every blasted day and well… he wanted to prove himself…  
  
Finally, Fuller spoke simply, "Do you paint often, John?"  
  
Silence.   
  
"John?" He never babied the man. Never walked on egg shells around him.   
  
Silence. Eyes down, painting as though deaf. Hm, Francisco de Goya?   
  
"Interesting work you do. I do believe that's your third interpretation of Hell this morning." Fuller had blunt, unfeeling style all his own.  
  
Silence.  
  
"I've never seen you paint anything else, John. Always red. Hard swirls and slashes of furious, screeching red. I sense a preoccupation. Pain. John, I-"  
  
"My name is Barty."   
  
James was temporarily taken aback. He hadn't expected John to speak.   
  
"So they tell me. Alright then… I'll play along for now, John. I'll call you Barty. However, if I agree to call you Barty… will you answer my questions?"  
  
Silence.  
  
"Tell me about hell, Bart. What do you see?"  
  
Silence and then unexpectedly, without looking up from his next busy red work, "I see… red…"  
  
"Red?" Fuller pretended patience. "Where? Where do you see the red?"  
  
"Everywhere." Pause. "Actually, behind my eyes. It comes from within."  
  
"When did this start?"   
  
Silence.   
  
"Bart-"  
  
"I don't know."  
  
Fair enough. His memory didn't carry from day to day.   
  
A long, long silence now… Fuller was mixing colors aimlessly, just thinking. Ratcliffe was still working with red. Only red. Each painting was different… but… UGH - there was something frightening about them. He couldn't place exactly what it was… there was just something-  
  
"John…" he started. "What's your kitten's name?" He had noticed the adorable gray kitten playing with the curtains by the window. John Ratcliffe was never separated from the little scamp.   
  
After a moment… "Amerigo."  
  
"Wow, John… that's very…" Hesitation. "…Spanish…"  
  
"Actually, it's Italian." Ratcliffe spoke presently, as he straightened up and began to paint with a new energy.  
  
"Is it?" Fuller realized he actually wasn't sure.  
  
"Amerigo Vespucci sailed for the Spanish, but wasn't actually Spanish."  
  
Huh? Oh. Hm, maybe that was what he'd been unknowingly going by…   
  
"Barty… along with your preoccupation with Hell… you seem to have a preoccupation with explorers. Why is that?"  
  
Silence for a moment, then - "I always wanted to be an explorer."  
  
"Really?"   
  
Ratcliffe seemed to suddenly flinch and instantly corrected himself, remembering - "I mean, I am an explorer. I'm Barty Columbus."   
  
Hm… "When did you get the kitten?"  
  
Hesitation. "Don't remember…"  
  
"Who gave you the kitten?"  
  
"…Wiggins…"  
  
"Why did Wiggins give you a kitten."  
  
"He promised."  
  
"Oh really…" James found this interested. "And why was that?"  
  
"I wouldn't stop-" He flinched again suddenly, cutting off.   
  
"…stop?" Jim prompted, hopeful.  
  
"I did very bad things." Ratcliffe was evading a painful memory. He didn't want to remember the death of Christopher. The death of Walter. These events had brought about the screeching violence.   
  
"Such as?"  
  
Another very, very long silence. Evasive. Refusing to remember.   
  
Ratcliffe resumed unexpectedly. "Hell is so hard to describe. Hell is… endless pain… regret… bleeding darkness…" He trailed off as his eyes dampened. "Hell is so cold… so very cold…"  
  
"Cold?" Fuller raised a perfectly etched eyebrow.   
  
"Freezing cold. It's so cold and dark there. It's the absence of God. The absence of all warmth and light. There's plague there. Horrible, murderous plague…"   
  
Hesitation. "Bart… why do you see Hell?"  
  
Ignoring the question, Ratcliffe indifferently changed the subject with blunt simplicity - "I have the plague."   
  
Repeating stubbornly, "Bart, why do you see Hell?"  
  
"I don't really see it." John suddenly spoke competently as he painted. "I'm merely remembering it. I know that now. I'm only remembering. It's one of the few things I allow myself to remember. So many terrible things have happened. I refuse to remember them anymore."  
  
"Remembering?" Another etched eyebrow. Remembering Hell?  
  
Silence.  
  
"Bart, have you BEEN to Hell?"  
  
"Oh yes." Careless, simple. "Only… I was pulled back."  
  
"Pulled back?"  
  
Silence… "I don't know how else to explain it. I was pulled back. It was more… a FEELING then anything… I think…"  
  
Silence. Fuller wasn't sure how to proceed. It was clear his method was the best of all the physicians. Talk to the man about what he actually wanted to talk about. Humor him. The others wouldn't play along and therefore they were destined to fail every time. Funny how he, a man of medicine - trained with a blade - could crack the code. He was dissecting the mind as he would a stomach. It WAS possible. He'd show them all, prove them all dead wrong…  
  
Ratcliffe broke the silence himself. "You weren't there, were you?"  
  
"Where, Barty?"  
  
"The place… the day…" He, again, struggled to explain without truly showing so. He still had yet to look up from his paintings.   
  
Patience. "Barty… where? What are you referring to?"  
  
"The day I died."  
  
***  
  
A list. James Fuller had actually made a list of every subject he and his patient had ever discussed. All trifle, but nevertheless… there were very clear and confusing patterns. Three words just kept coming up…  
  
"…his three preoccupations… gold, hell and explorers…"  
  
It was very late and by lamplight he was talking to himself.  
  
Staring out his bedroom window in the dark, starry sky… he was thinking… his eyes filled with focus, concentration…  
  
"What really happened to you, John?" he whispered.  
  
What went down in South America? What was happening within him now?  
  
***  
  
Ratcliffe could see the servant. Wiggins was watching them anxiously from the hall. Ratcliffe was all too agreeable, though, snuggling under the covers as James Fuller tucked him into bed, preparing to read him a bedtime story…   
  
The former Governor smiled, knowing Wiggins would trust this new development soon enough and then rejoice in the much needed help. He was always whining for help and now he had it. Ratcliffe absolutely adored his new friend, his new playmate. They painted together and shared stories. Jimmy cared about him. He really cared.  
  
In reality, if Ratcliffe had been himself, he would have picked up on Fuller's humoring and virtually indifferent tone of voice. He would have picked up on the expressions, the constant raised eyebrow. Instead, he took everything at face value and was overjoyed. He had a friend!   
  
Walter and Chris forgotten, he had a friend again.  
  
Wiggins finally dared to enter, though it was obvious he didn't want to disrupt their pretty little picture. He didn't trust things yet. He'd see though - he'd soon see. Ratcliffe would behave for Jimmy. He'd make the effort. He really would. He promised himself this.   
  
The attendant silently set a glass of water on the bedside table and gradually, seeing he wasn't needed, left the room.   
  
"Wiggins…" Ratcliffe almost whimpered like a child.  
  
Fuller glanced over his shoulder. The doorway was empty. "You missed your chance, Barty. You know… you should show a little more appreciation. That boy runs rampant for you day and night-"  
  
Wiggins had heard and returned, standing in the doorway.   
  
"Good night, Wiggins. Thank you for the water." Voice small, timid.  
  
"Your welcome, sir." The servant actually smiled. "Sweet dreams."   
  
The door closed behind the boy and Fuller turned back to his patient. "Excellent, Bart. It's important to show appreciation."  
  
"It's important to show appreciation." Ratcliffe repeated, small.  
  
"NOW…" the surgeon opened the large book of fairy tales. "What do you feel like tonight?"  
  
"Something romantic."  
  
"Romantic?" James grinned teasingly. "Are you a romantic, Barty?"  
  
Hesitation. "I've always wanted to be."  
  
Jim's smirk slipped from his face, quite serious, "Not a hit with the ladies, I take it?"  
  
"Women hate me, Jim. Everyone hates me."  
  
"I don't hate you."  
  
"I know. Thank you, Jim."  
  
James smiled, returning to the book. "So… something romantic… HM…" After a moment's thought, for he knew very little of fairy tales, he made a list aloud for his patient: "…Sleeping Beauty… Snow White… Beauty and the Beast…"  
  
"That one."   
  
"I've always fancied the one about the long haired girl in the tower-"  
  
"No towers!" John was sharp, remembering Walter and their imprisonment. How horrible those days had been. He was so grateful for the Count and his estate…  
  
"Very well, Beauty and the Beast it is… seems symbolic for your-"   
  
"I wouldn't know. I've never heard any of these stories. I only cared for the adventure, glory-filled treasure stories, Jim. I don't want those anymore, though. I've had enough adventure and treasure hunting now. There's no glory in it after all. Just death."  
  
Hesitation. Did he dare? "What happened in South America, Bart?"  
  
"Bad things, Jim. Very bad things. I don't remember anymore."  
  
Jim decided not to push, "Very well…" He turned to the appropriate page and showed Ratcliffe the first illustration. Glancing at the text he realized it was an extremely long, detailed story written in French. Believing he knew the plot, he decided to wing it. "There once lived a handsome prince-"  
  
"Wait - does a beautiful woman love a hideous man?"  
  
"More or less…"  
  
"Good. I want to hear that. It was always my dream."   
  
Jim was suddenly saddened, but he continued - "There once lived a handsome prince who was beautiful on the outside but absolutely hideous inside. He was cruel, selfish, greedy, rude - just horrible…"  
  
"Sounds like me, doesn't it?"  
  
Jim refused to smile and kept reading. "One stormy night a monstrous beggar woman approached the palace, begging for some charity. Predictably, the prince turned her away, outrageously rude and cruel. His heart was sheer black ice. Unfortunately, that mysterious beggar turned out to be a powerful Enchantress…"  
  
John quietly gasped like a small child.  
  
"She turned the horrible prince into a hideous beast so his outsides would match his insides. A monster, the prince drove away all his employees and let the castle fall into disrepair. Alone and beyond miserable-"  
  
"Doctor?"  
  
"Yes, Bart?"  
  
"Thank you for painting with me today…" Pause. "…Thank you for reading me bedtime stories."  
  
"You're welcome, Bart."  
  
"Doctor?"  
  
"Yes, Bart?"  
  
"You can call me John. My name is John."   
  
Silence.   
  
Fuller smiled. "Excellent, John. Thank you."  
  
Another hesitation. Conversations with Ratcliffe were full of them.  
  
"Thank you for reminding me… Thank you for helping me…"  
  
"My, one 'Thank You' after another tonight-"  
  
"It's important to show appreciation…"  
  
Now Fuller REALLY smiled.   
  
***  
  
"Now, how do we - yes, that's right. The left hand, excellent, John."  
  
Jim was re-teaching Ratcliffe to dance, an absolute must for the man's station in life. Standing offside, he was instructing the 30-something as he fumbled about with a female servant from the kitchen. "No, no - now the right foot. Now the left, meet it with the left! … Yes! Right, John, right! Er, no, no - I mean, that's CORRECT… Ah… now you've got it!"  
  
Having re-conquered the steps, he was off, dancing reasonably well. Within a few moments the pair had picked up speed…  
  
He smiled. She smiled. And that's when Wiggins walked in and paled.  
  
***  
  
"Alright… um, no John… John, no, no, no - JOHN!" Fuller was frustrated. There were a dozen utensils before the young man and after several days he still didn't have them all straight. Everyday they had to regain the same ground. No progress. It was infuriating.  
  
"John, now listen - yes, that one. Good. Now, eat your salad. NO… I said salad. UM… salad for the salad fork, John…"  
  
***  
  
"H… I… J…"  
  
Hesitation. "You have very lovely cursive, Jim."  
  
"Thank you, John, but please… pay attention."  
  
Though the former governor could still read his wrists were numb when it came to writing. He could scribble things down, for sure, but it was just absolutely inappropriate for a man of his class. Therefore, they were relearning his calligraphy…  
  
"No, no, John… you need to loop the bottom - ah, yes, lovely."  
  
Without instruction John finished his name beside the J. It did look quite lovely, actually. He was progressing well.  
  
"Before long you'll be writing me letters…" Jim smiled.  
  
Silence.  
  
As Ratcliffe continued, he repeated, "You have lovely cursive, Jim."  
  
Wiggins, silently polishing silver a few feet away, was clearly very troubled…   
  
***  
  
"I can't BELIEVE it!" Count Wexford-Smyth was beside himself with joy.  
  
"Nor can we…" the head physician of the professional little party admitted. "He seems on the road to a full recovery…"   
  
"I just can't BELIEVE it!" Smyth repeated, smiling.   
  
"Within a few days you should be able to ask him questions regarding… well, regarding…"  
  
"Yes, yes…" the count was dismissive.   
  
As they continued to chatter about the miracle recovery like foolish birds on wire, Wiggins knew better. He stood outside their happy little mass, his face deadpan, though his under thoughts gloom and doom. He knew the truth about James Fuller…  
  
***  
  
"Ah! Third fork." Doctor Fuller corrected sharply. Ratcliffe instantly obeyed, sitting across from him at the dining room table. As the former official began to eat with perfect politeness, Fuller praised him and glanced at Wexford Smyth for approval.  
  
Count Wexford-Smyth couldn't take his eyes off Ratcliffe. What a remarkable recovery! Wiggins was watching him as well… though unhappily… he kept glancing back and forth between Ratcliffe and - ER… this was so infuriating…   
  
"Wiggins, isn't this marvelous?" Smyth finally spoke. "He's eating like a human being again! He's actually eating like a civilized human being!"  
  
Silence.  
  
"Wiggins?"  
  
"Compliment him." Fuller whispered, quickly and quietly - but Wiggins was watching. He understood the situation all to well. Rasputin and the Romanovs. Control, manipulation…   
  
"Count, you have such a pleasant voice." Ratcliffe said the very first thing that came to mind and it took everyone by surprise.  
  
Wexford-Smyth actually smiled. "Why, he's transformed, Wiggins! Absolutely transformed… how could this HAPPEN? Practically overnight! Within a mere fortnight, he's had a complete, unquestionable turnaround. HOW?"  
  
As the half-wit and Ratcliffe gradually returned to themselves, Wiggins knew EXACTLY how. Eyes down, he risked a glance up at James Fuller and knew the truth all too well…  
  
***  
  
Jim was holding Amerigo as he supervised Ratcliffe in a careless game of croquet. Constantly instructing him - controlling him - Fuller watched the man calmly and silently follow the course about, repeatedly striking the ball.   
  
"That's it, John… lean in… more shoulder, more shoulder… that's it…"  
  
Count Wexford-Smyth watched from his window, stories above the deep green lawn. He wasn't smiling. He wanted to smile, after all, this was the very miracle he'd been praying for, unfortunately - something just didn't feel right.   
  
He risked a glance to his right. Wiggins was watching the former Governor intensely as well. Yes, something was definitely going on…   
  
Clearing his throat, the Count spoke - "Another letter from Gloucester. Seems Martinez is the favourite for the appointment… and considering there are very few days left until the actual…" he trailed off, watching Ratcliffe. His ball had landed in the fountain.  
  
Below, Jim was instructing. "Um, John - John, NO - a man of your stature, of your class and breeding, does NOT climb into fountains…"  
  
Ratcliffe wasn't listening. In his efforts to appease his new master, he was oblivious to instruction. He just wanted to-  
  
"JOHN. Call for a servant. Don't you dare-"  
  
Well into the fountain now, John still wasn't listening. He was soaked to his mid-calves and getting wetter every instant. Fumbling for his croquet ball, he soaked his entire arm.   
  
"JOHNATHON…"   
  
Frustrated, Fuller unexpectedly pushed John, hard. Knocking the poor dependent over and fully into the water, Fuller was furious. "John, listen to me! You have to listen to me! Do you understand? Always listen to me!"  
  
Wiggins watched uneasily from his perch high above, Count Wexford-Smyth having returned to his desk. He was writing a response to Gloucester. He was missing this…  
  
Ratcliffe was trying to rise… but Fuller just wouldn't let him. He was demanding understanding…  
  
"John, do you understand me? JOHN!?"  
  
Hacking, soaked to the marrow, Ratcliffe was practically whimpering. "Jim, please let me up, Jim… please…"   
  
"John… do you understand me?" Fuller emphasized each word carefully.   
  
"I'm sorry, Jim. I'll be good. I promise. Just please let me out. I'm cold and I'm frightened. I don't want to drown. I'm frightened. I don't like it when you yell at me…"  
  
Wiggins watched gravely. It was now starting to rain. He was watching his charge's lips… they were moving, trembling - his eyes welling with tears…   
  
The attendant turned away. No one knew, save he.  
  
***  
  
The study was an amateur art gallery. A chronology of Ratcliffe's painting career lined the walls, circling around the room. Most were very, very red… the few that weren't belonged to Fuller…  
  
Ratcliffe and Fuller sat on the floor with Amerigo, as always. They were playing chess…   
  
"So, John, you and this kitchen girl…" Jim glanced up, grinning.  
  
Ratcliffe's cheeks flushed slightly. "She's very sweet."  
  
"What's her name?"   
  
"Mercedes."   
  
"She's French."  
  
"Half French."   
  
"Ew."   
  
"I rather like her. She might teach me French, Jim."  
  
Jim continued to make a face. France versus England, obviously.   
  
"So…" John was thinking. "My queen can kill your bishop?"  
  
"Kill, John?" Fuller disapproved. "Kill is such an ugly word."  
  
Silence, and then - "I'm not afraid of death anymore, Jim."  
  
Fuller ignored this, resuming, "Yes, you can TAKE my bishop."  
  
After a moment Ratcliffe added, "I really like her, Jim."  
  
"She's a kitchen girl, John. You'd better not grow attached. Her class is honestly only good for one thing."  
  
"What's that?" John asked, still innocent in his illness, child-like.  
  
Jim scoffed. "REALLY, John."  
  
Another lull and then - "So, ready to talk about South America?"  
  
"No." John was blunt. "The more I remember the more I never wish to think or speak of any of it again. It's dreadful. Unthinkable."  
  
"…can't be THAT bad, John… What did you do?"  
  
"Nothing. Everything was done to me and mine."  
  
"Spaniards? Natives?"  
  
John hesitated in a way that confirmed both. Ew. However, he instantly changed the subject with simple indifference - "I use to be quite good at this game once…" He spoke vaguely as he struck another dark religious piece from the board. "Having to relearn everything is rather tiresome, honestly…"  
  
Fuller seemed to stiffen.   
  
Ratcliffe could read his mind. "It's not that I don't appreciate all you do for me, James. I do. I really, truly do. I would be lost without you. You taught me to dress myself again. To groom myself again. I was a useless vegetable until you brought me back into the world. I love you for it, Jim, I truly do. You're my father, mother, brother - you're my WORLD, Jim…" Hesitation. Fuller was still stiff. Eyes down. "Jim, please don't be displeased with me. I hate that. I can't bare it, Jim. I couldn't breath without you. You're everything to me…" Hesitation. "Jim?"   
  
Listening, though pretending to be studying all the careless paintings, Wiggins was absolutely miserable. This couldn't carry on much longer. It just couldn't…   
  
He decided to bud in… "Um, Governor, sir - apologies. I don't wish to interrupt your match… I was just admiring this painting. It's rather beautiful…"  
  
It truly was. It was a lovely landscape with mountains and woodland. A lake reflected on the left-hand side. It was quite good, actually.  
  
"James painted that one." Ratcliffe spoke absently, moving his pawn.  
  
Jim, "Ah, careful now, John - pawn's can only move diagonally when-"  
  
Wiggins interrupted, "What was the inspiration?"  
  
Silence. Ratcliffe glanced up at Fuller.   
  
Fuller smiled, "Life and death."   
  
Ratcliffe smiled proudly, repeating - "Life and death."   
  
The servant froze, staring blankly at an amazing, enchanted piece. A winter castle within a winter forest… It was chilling…  
  
"And this one?"  
  
"Beauty and the beast." The pair answered together, sharing a smile.  
  
"It's haunting…"  
  
Wiggins studied the red paintings… They were all so similar, yet each one somehow distinct as well. There was something quite hideous and disquieting about them. The servant couldn't quite pinpoint exactly what, however. He stared and stared…  
  
Then it struck him, harsh and horrible…  
  
Screeching faces. Moaning faces. Hollow eyes and gaping mouths - each long and moaning, wailing… pain, suffering, misery…   
  
Hidden within the paintings, upon closer inspection, was the depiction of ultimate torment.  
  
Hand over mouth and absolutely shaken, Wiggins was gone from the room instantly, eyes wet.  
  
***  
  
Wiggins prepared an afternoon liquor for his employer, hands trembling. He nearly knocked over a small glass bottle, but managed to catch it and steady himself enough to pick up the tray and set it before his master. He fortunately had been preparing behind his master's desk, out of the man's line of sight. Little did he know, the trembling glass had been quite hearable.   
  
Wexford-Smyth took the drink, smiling, "Wiggins - are you alright?"  
  
"Splendid, sir." The servant lied. Servants always answered so, whether they were miserable or truly splendid. It was their duty.   
  
Sighing, Wexford-Smyth snapped his papers on the desk. "It's official. Martinez has been appointed. Ellington must be simply furious. A Spaniard swept the title right out from under him. Tsk, tsk…"  
  
"I never thought I'd see the day." Wiggins admitted. "A Spaniard."  
  
"Her majesty never would have appointed him, you can be certain of that." Wexford-Smyth sighed. "Then again, our rivalry with Spain was much more severe at the time… wars and whatnot…"  
  
Wiggins stepped back, thinking. He couldn't tell just yet. He couldn't send them all back into that state of desperate, insanely stressful chaos. Perhaps if it was never brought before him, actually brought out into the open - perhaps… he would never need to. Things could still work out, right? …  
  
***  
  
They were painting again today. They'd read stories from the library… and then played with Smyth's bird and Ratcliffe's kitten… they'd chatted a bit… now they were sipping lemonade and painting away the afternoon. Life was joyous when you were John and Jim. Or so John thought.  
  
Ratcliffe was painting a beautiful blue sky and sea. He'd painted a very green coniferous forest an hour earlier. All shades of forest greens. Time with Jim was gradually curing him of his preoccupation with death and hell. He was beginning to branch out into other colours and concepts. Sighing, he reminisced, "I always wanted to explore, Jim. It was my dream. I wanted to be a great man. I wanted power and wealth. I wanted THIS…" he showed his friend his painting of the unknown horizon. "I wanted the potential to succeed. I wanted the gap between setting a goal and achieving it. The dream was always more exciting than having to deal with the reality of what the dream would actually mean. The adventure, the quest - I loved it, Jim. I loved it like I loved Chris… It was what he stood for, represented…"  
  
Fuller didn't look up, painting hard with green. He spoke with dark seriousness. "Chris wasn't real, John. You know that now."  
  
"I know, Jim, I know. Walter wasn't real either. He merely represented my desire for a friend. A second half. Someone to utterly care for and to utterly care for me in return. I know. I understand now. I wanted someone to share everything with."  
  
Silence.  
  
"I don't need them anymore. I have you."  
  
Jim looked up, his expression an indescribable mix. "John, you realize, don't you? I can't stay with you forever. I have-"  
  
"Why not?" Ratcliffe's tone was that of panic and pain. "WHY NOT?"  
  
Jim sighed. "John, as deeply as I care for you, I'll have other patients. I'll have to move on. It's my job… but… the more immediate answer?" His face motioned to the next room. Wiggins was folding laundry, clearly listening to them. He was ALWAYS listening to them. "SOMEONE… is going to give away my secret…"  
  
"The secret…" Ratcliffe's eyes widened. "I knew you had a secret!"  
  
Jim sighed, trying to change the direction of conversation. "John… it's just a job. You should never attach yourself to people. Never. You should have known I'd eventually have to leave you. I merely represent your re-entry into society."  
  
"Wiggins is going to tell?" Ratcliffe was vague, returning to secrets.  
  
"Yes, John. He knows. He's know for quite some time. In fact, he'll tell any day now. He'll tell and then they'll take me away from you."   
  
"NO! I won't let them!"   
  
Wiggins, glancing up and into the room, was concerned. The former Governor hadn't lashed out in weeks. He hadn't lashed out since Fuller had-  
  
"WIGGINS!" Ratcliffe trembled with rage, ordering him into the room.  
  
"Yes, sir?"   
  
As the young man entered, Fuller's eyes dropped down. This was it. Everything would be brought out into the open. He was finished.   
  
Ratcliffe confronted - "Wiggins… I know you know… you've always known…" He hesitated before daring to add, "You've been jealous of Jim from the beginning. You're jealous of Jim! He's replaced you! I don't NEED you anymore and-"  
  
"I thought you WANTED a break, Wiggins…" Fuller accused simply.  
  
Wiggins shook his head, unable to deal anymore. It was out in the open. Ratcliffe knew he knew. Shaking his head miserably, he turned and literally ran from the room.  
  
***  
  
Followed by the mass of doctors and Count Wexford-Smyth, a shaken Wiggins - clearly very upset, led them into the study. Ratcliffe always played with Jim in the study… they'd surely be there, conflict or no…  
  
Then again, would Ratcliffe run away after the confrontation? Would-  
  
Fortunately, they were there… still painting…  
  
"Jim…" Ratcliffe glanced nervously. "What have you done?"  
  
"I'm sorry, John…"  
  
"JIM… what have you DONE?" his patient's eyes grew wet, vulnerable.  
  
"John, I really am sorry. I never meant to hurt you."  
  
They had come to take him away…  
  
Snapping, Ratcliffe starting screeching. "JIM! JIM! Tell me what you've done, Jim! Please, don't take him, please! PLEASE! Just tell me what he's done! I'll make it right, I'll make it right - I'll make it RIGHT!!"   
  
"Wiggins, what the HELL is he babbling about?" Wexford was panicked.  
  
"Count, please help us, they've come to take Jim!" John pleaded.  
  
Confused, Wexford-Smyth turned to Wiggins for explanation.  
  
"Doctor James Fuller… the young, unorthodox surgeon who walked out a few weeks ago? After that particularly violent, scary spell?"  
  
"Oh yes…" the count remembered the arrogant ass. "HIM. What about him?"   
  
The head physician knelt before his patient gently. "John, please… stop shouting… you must calm down… we just wish to speak to you…"  
  
"I won't listen! I won't! You've come to take Jim!"  
  
"I'm sorry, John…" Jim seemed so sad. He seemed so two dimensional suddenly. A vague haze was setting in… Something wasn't right!   
  
"John…" the doctor whispered. "Tell me…" he motioned to Jim Fuller. "Do you see someone there, John? Is someone sitting there?"  
  
"My best friend, Jim." Ratcliffe was blunt.   
  
The mass exchanged miserable expressions. Wexford-Smyth started to cry. 


	13. Charm is Deceptive and Beauty Fleeting

WHERE PONCE DE LEON FAILED Chapter: Charm is Deceptive and Beauty Fleeting  
  
***  
  
Disclaimer: This particular Pocahontas and all involved characters and concepts belong to the Walt Disney Company. Anything else is history, literature, mythology, religion - unless of course, it's one of my originals. Some of this stuff is mine, after all. Characters, especially - I just luv my characters! ^_^  
  
A/N: Sorry for the long lull. I've had so much going on. Packing to move out for University, working 9-5, Editor of the yearbook, Band librarian, one'a the leads in the play, Speaker of the House for student parliament, holding a Tupperware party, [insert more excuses] - hey, it's the TRUTH! *lol*  
  
Btw, the anachronisms are getting worse and worse! The inaccuracies too! Which reminds me, everyone - U. Pitt has been especially great here for pointing stuff out to help me make this story better! This chapter is dedicated to this wonderful, supportive fan. Thanks so much! (And thanks to everyone else reading this story too! You guys are ALL great!)  
  
The plot turns here. More official movie characters this chapter and next. Yay for you!  
  
***  
  
Glass shattered everywhere as the table crashed down, hurled amidst the shrieks of rage and utter frustration.  
  
However, it was not the notorious lunatic John Ratcliffe. No, the man responsible was none other than James the I and VI, king of England and Scotland.  
  
"Your excellency." his high chancellor was hesitant, the pages behind doing their best to mask their discomfort and apprehension.  
  
James would have none of it though, he was too far gone in his fury against every star, every God and two mortals in particular - madman Ratcliffe and Count Wexford-Smyth, his keeper.  
  
"Your highness, PLEASE-"  
  
"Damn them! Damn them both! I spoke to the dolt myself! DAMN THEM - he was absolutely capable, entirely returned to sanity! How the HELL could the situation change so ABRUPTLY?! What the hell did that half-wit of a Count DO?!"  
  
No one answered, though most present knew the unfortunate Wexford-Smyth was not to blame. The recovery had been superficial and induced by merely a new hallucination. One by the name of James Fuller, a colonial surgeon and smart ass to the extreme.  
  
Screeching violently in his throat, the monarch suddenly buckled, head in his hands intensely - his head and stomach in equally violent pain. His anguish had never been so evident. Lord, if the Spaniards caught wind of the fountain - if anyone beat England to it, LORD - eternal Spaniards. Immortality for the first finder and inevitable doom to all the rest! It was too much. Too much. The fountain was to become the property of England. No choice, do or die - end of discussion.  
  
"Excellency, if I may." a charming Spanish voice slipped into audio.  
  
It was so smooth, so confident and capable - James eyes rose slowly. It was his new Governor, freshly appointed. Martinez. A former Spaniard, he'd turned coat years ago and had been working his way deeper and deeper into the inner English circles, finally having his season in the sun as Ratcliffe's replacement.  
  
"Your majesty." the charismatic fellow knelt before his king, meeting him softly and respectfully at eye level, his tones matching, "Excellency, there's no need to despair. James Fuller is not entirely fictional."  
  
Dead silence all around.  
  
"The man does in fact exist, sire. An arrogant, ignorant fool who's just bounced back from the colonies. He worked with John Ratcliffe once or twice before Wexford-Smyth and the other practitioners determined it best to have the young upstart. removed." Hesitation. "His methods were most unorthodox."  
  
"How is this relevant?" the chamberlain, somewhat affronted as he disliked the charming Spanish serpent, stepped forward.  
  
"Simple." Martinez smiled attractively, glancing up and speaking in a humoring way, though golden in tone all the while. "We have the real Fuller pose as the fake Fuller and continue to control John Ratcliffe."  
  
James didn't speak for several moments, thinking, stressed, confused. and then. every so slowly, a large grin formed along his lips.  
  
***  
  
"Stop that man! Stop him at once!"  
  
No one reacted. Everyone bustled about their business, the harbor a chaotic mess of persons and cargo. They'd never catch him. Never. He was already boarding and-  
  
"James Fuller!" the officer boomed, racing his fastest.  
  
The surgeon didn't hear, continuing up the plank casually. No one wanted him in France or Germany, so back to the colonies for the moment. Perhaps-  
  
"FULLER!" he was whirled around harshly, startled to the marrow.  
  
Extremely pale, his shoulder stinging from the brutal snap-around, he stared wide eyed at the authorities, "If its about my debts, gentlemen, I assure you-"  
  
"Save it, Doctor. You're coming with us. NOW."  
  
"Officers, most honestly, I intend to pay every single-"  
  
He was frisked roughly. Startled, he interrupted himself with a sharp yip before continuing with, "I merely-"  
  
"Come on, you." one forcefully manhandled him down he plank.  
  
"Look, I don't care what that pompous innkeeper says, I-"  
  
"NOW!"  
  
Paler still, "Oh my Lord! It's about that vulgar prostitute, isn't it? I swear before God, King and Country, gentleman, I never struck that woman. She's a known liar!"  
  
Rougher still, "That's enough, Fuller."  
  
"My taxes? Gentlemen, tell me it's my taxes!"  
  
James was literally as white as death now, his fright worsening by the second, unable to understand. And then his heart seemed to stop, realizing they weren't headed for prison at all. The severity of the situation struck him hard. "What's going on here? Where are you taking me? I demand to know my crime! Tell me my crime!" With every single syllable he spoke more fast and flustered, escalating himself into a full scale panic. "Where are you taking me!? You have to tell me the charges! You have-"  
  
"Stop struggling, you ass, you've an audience with the king immediately!"  
  
"The. the. king?" James choked the words out, thunderstruck.  
  
He was slammed brutally into the carriage without a response.  
  
"Whatever it is I'll pay right now!" he cried, alarmed, "I'll pay right now!" He was practically crying. "I'll pay right now!"  
  
***  
  
Lon arrived, his face just burning, his first words livid, "I just DON'T believe it, John! I just don't BELIEVE IT! That monster! That bastard!"  
  
"Hello to you too, old friend." John muttered satirically, nailing boards beneath a ship. "Welcome back. How long have you been in-"  
  
"Long enough to hear about Allingham! How can you be so calm?!"  
  
"Allingham?" the name changed Smith's mood altogether, slipping out from under his work, his expression gravened, "What's he up to now?"  
  
"WHAT? You can't tell me you don't know! Wake up, John! This is serious! You should have been keeping an eye on this ass while I was gone!"  
  
"Hey, if this was so damn serious you wouldn't have LEFT the country." John was instantly defensive, wiping his hands harshly.  
  
"Listen, John - nothing was happening and. I need to EAT. just as Ben needed to go home and work his-"  
  
"Alright, alright - Allingham, Lon. What's happened?"  
  
"He's set sail, John!" the fountain touched friend's tone was sheer desperation. "The second he lost the appointment to Martinez the bastard set SAIL!"  
  
Blank momentarily, Smith suddenly understood. Mortified and panicked beyond all bounds, he attempted to jump to his feet, slamming his head HARD on the small ship's hull. Crying out sharply, he fell back down and began to curse insanely. Not over pain - a smash was nothing - he was devastated about Allingham.  
  
"It's the end of the WORLD, John!" Lon's voice was breaking.  
  
"I know, I know." Smith was up and bouncing around in pain and stress and absolute horror. "Holy crap, holy crap, holy-"  
  
"Gentleman." an officer stood before them on the dock.  
  
"Officer?" John was instantly transformed, the image of dignity.  
  
"You have an audience with King James right away. I'll escort you."  
  
"Excellent, just the man we needed to see." John's voice faltered.  
  
***  
  
"I just KNEW I couldn't trust that WRETCH! This is exactly the reason I didn't appoint him! I suspected from the very beginning!"  
  
The monarch's voice broke all barriers, escaping easily into the outer chamber where the high chancellor was uselessly fumbling with this and that as he waiting anxiously to be permitted in.  
  
"Psh, he knew because I knew." he muttered to a nearby page. "I'm the one who was suspicious of Allingham. As much as I despise Martinez, I knew the fool was loyal to the crown. Allingham's a pirate through and through - dress him and groom him as excellently as you like, but he's still a ruthless, wretched pirate all the same." Hesitation.  
  
"His teeth give him away." the attendant spoke quiet and sad, eyes down. Eventually they lifted, watching the advisor casually flip a page here, take a quick careless glance across to something there - he was subconsciously restless, as nonchalant thought he was. The fate of the world was up in the air - even those at the right hand of the most powerful. even there fates were somewhere within their secret unconscious absolutely uncertain.  
  
The king's voice continued to boom, it was impossible not to eavesdrop, "Men, this is Fuller. The doctor you've been briefed on. He'll serve as our control over that bitch of a madman. Wexford-Smyth here, I'm sure you're all acquainted, yes - Wexford-Smyth, will cover the cost of an expedition that must set sail at dawn. No later. Allingham's already got a week on us!"  
  
Some unintelligible mutters all around. The chancellor suddenly seemed to brew, tension building within - he was furious at not being included in this crucial conversation.  
  
"Perhaps." the page ventured to speak and then fell silent, nervous.  
  
The advisor's gaze fell indifferently upon him as though considering him slightly, but thinking of something else. And then unexpectedly, "Yes?"  
  
"Perhaps, your excellency, just perhaps. his highness wishes to go on the outrageous expedition. Perhaps he's leaving you out in the cold temporarily to deliver you the news unbias, separate, um."  
  
"What are you trying to say, man? You aren't making sense a'tall!"  
  
"Um, perhaps, he's going to leave you on the throne in his absence."  
  
Shocked silence, then suddenly, "WHAT? What a ridiculous." and then unexpectedly again, "Do you really think so?"  
  
"Perhaps. I mean, this is enormously serious business. Kingly business. Perhaps he's going to call you in and announce that you'll sit in his absence. Surely running a kingdom comes second to eternal youth and saving the earth, sir."  
  
Hesitation, "Your point is valid, fellow. but. he has FAMILY."  
  
"He knows you are trustworthy. You are capable. Each and every second cousin from distant lands is absolutely not."  
  
"I see. I-" He stopped himself. "What's your name, lad?"  
  
"Knox, sir. Jiminy Knox."  
  
"Well, master Knox, I shall pay you a compliment this day. I'm not exactly sure how or what, but a compliment is certainly in order." Praising a lower class assistant wasn't at all his line and the chancellor was left confused and tongue tied. Perhaps he was just confusing his inner excitement over the possibility of the throne with-  
  
Before the chancellor could finish forming or expressing any sort of thought, the doors opened and he was summoned. Hm, the conversation had gone on for several moments in much calmer, hushed tones - what the devil was to come now?  
  
OH. Him. LORD, if I wasn't summoned what the hell is HE doing here?  
  
Martinez sat smiling confidently beside the king. Hm, smiling to one's face while meditating some devastatingly underhanded ploy behind one's back. Dastardly snake. A clever little snake in the grass, coiled and ready to spring - something was up. Something unpleasant.  
  
"Charles." James motioned for him to approach. "Charles, desperate times have fallen upon us, my trusted friend."  
  
The chancellor felt his future balancing dangerously on the edge of a very fine blade. Balancing recklessly, ready to fall either way. Was he to take the thrown. or was he. being dismissed.?  
  
"Should the Spanish beat us to our prize, I must remain here in England to prepare our defense. However, I need my second half, my second mind, my second self. on the expedition. I trust you, Chamberlain. I know you would do anything for myself and for England - therefore, I order you to lead this expedition."  
  
Silence. No response whatsoever.  
  
"I realize you'll want to be by my side, as always, especially in this time of great turmoil, but chancellor, you have a greater calling at the moment. Fear not, I will not be without assistance. A temporary advisor has been appointed."  
  
OH NO. Not. the smirk, the damn ass cocky smirk.  
  
Solemn - "Martinez will serve in your place, Charles."  
  
Beautiful. Just beautiful.  
  
***  
  
"Beautiful. Just beautiful." Charles Fawkes muttered, a large pack on his back as he struggled up the plank.  
  
Wexford-Smyth followed with a cheerfully clueless expression on his face - all was well in his world again: Ratcliffe was sane once more and out of his home, King James was calming and hey, he was finally getting his New World adventure; something he'd been planning with Smith for over a year now and dreaming of his entire life.  
  
Glancing back down at the carriage, he noticed Wiggins standing offlandishly to the side while James Fuller assisted a slow, disoriented John Ratcliffe down its steps. "Easy, John, easy there."  
  
"He needs to be babied." Ben noted from aboard. "Every single instruction given as though Fuller is his actual MIND."  
  
"That's how it worked with them before, well, with the fictional Fuller, that is. It WAS his mind. His mind trying to return to normal and doing it the only way it could. under its own warped, mentally ill circumstances." Smith was indifferently tying knots with quick ease. Too tightly, almost as though he was furious inside with the whole prospect of-  
  
Lon cleared his throat, "This is going to be extremely awkward."  
  
"We knew that from the get-go." their captain continued to sound impartial as he pulled ropes tight; too tight.  
  
"John. you said yourself, Ratcliffe had a break through a few weeks ago - he remembered you and how much he hated you. He turned extremely violent. This could. be disastrous." Lon continued.  
  
"I've faced disaster before, Lon. I wouldn't have it any other way."  
  
"We've got Fuller to keep things together." Ben snorted, walking towards them. "I mean, he's got to be good for something. No useless mouths around here, I'm telling ya, lads. First useless mouth I find while find ITSELF filled with sea water." He jerked a thumb, motioning overboard.  
  
Smith didn't react, distracting himself in his work.  
  
"Are you going to be like this all trip?" Lon muttered, annoyed.  
  
No answer, almost aggressive tying and pulling.  
  
"John, you did admire him temporarily without realizing it. Surely you remember the journal you mistook for Allingham's. I distinctly remember you saying you'd found the one person who truly understood your dreams. A person you could forgive of ANYTHING, John. You-"  
  
"Well, just a few things to confirm down below and off we go." Smith interrupted, walking away.  
  
Lon and Ben exchanged uneasy glances, predicting a rough month at sea.  
  
***  
  
Shortly after leaving the King's chambers and getting his affairs in order the day prior, John Smith had paid a young friend an unexpected audience.  
  
"Me?" Thomas was quite surprised. "You want me?"  
  
"Why wouldn't I?" Smith shrugged.  
  
Hesitant, "I. I don't think so, John. Thanks for the offer, thanks for the faith in me, but respectfully. no."  
  
"And miss a chance to be part of the greatest expedition of all time?"  
  
Sad hesitation, eyes down and then glancing up as though not wanting to disappoint, "With all my heart, no." Spoken softly, regretfully.  
  
John didn't have time to debate. There was so much to do. "Last chance, Thomas." he glanced at the door and the time. "Care to make history with me? Again?"  
  
The small smile the boy was known for, "Sorry, John. I've learned first hand that I'm not made of the right stuff. Jamestown nearly killed me, mate. You and I are made of very different metals. I haven't the heart for it. That first adventure was enough to last me the rest of my life."  
  
Silence and then, "Alright. I. I just wouldn't have been able to live with myself if I hadn't offered a young, ambition dream chaser like you the chance to. I don't know. Never mind. You obviously aren't that young boy anymore. and I sincerely respect that as much as I respect your decision. You can't say you don't know yourself, lad. I just wish I knew you." With that John took his hand and shook it firmly. "Good luck, Tom. May fortune smile on you and yours."  
  
With that, John Smith walked out of the boy's life forever.  
  
Or so everyone thought.  
  
Now, most unexpectedly, Thomas stood on the dock, duffle bag slung over his shoulder. His family had said their goodbyes at home. He stood here alone, inside terrified and wondering if he was making the right decision.  
  
Virginia had been hard, but. John hadn't been there. John Smith would be with him now. as would many with far less experience than he in matters of survival. Idiots like Wexford-Smyth. With thoughts of this colourful crew and their exotic adventure. he hadn't been able to sleep. This really was too big to miss. As terrifying as it was - it was too earth shattering to walk away from. Hopefully John would still take him on.  
  
***  
  
Wiggins was folding the whites in a quick, indifferent, almost cold manner; much too sharply - like Smith's sudden work ethic. Working without anything. Working too physically hard and fast in order to avoid all feeling and thought.  
  
His mind played over a quick conversation with Jeremy, the groom, before departure that morning.  
  
"Listen, you twit - you felt torn between two masters and now with the entrance of the real Fuller, you're problem is solved. You have one master again, Wexford-Smyth, and trust me - he's the better deal. End of story. Now, stop being a fool and go save the world. I'd kill for such an adventure!"  
  
He and Jerry had grown close in their months together under the employment of Count Wexford-Smyth. Jeremy was a little roguish at times, a little hard edged and crude, but he hadn't been raised for a life of servitude in the same sense at all. He worked with animals. He could rise to an occasion for certain and was a master at his craft, but facts were facts - the man shoveled shit.  
  
Picturing the boyish fellow's brown hair and blue eyes merrily mocking him in the morning light over the back of a shining bay mare, Wiggins realized sadly that perhaps Jerry had the better deal entirely. Not just Wexford- Smyth, of course, but the casual life of a stable boy. The laid back speech of a groom. Sure, Jeremy changed his entire manner and even his accent in the presence of nobility, but he was still extremely free. Extremely loose.  
  
He had much more fun. Many more experiences. Laid back, casual.  
  
Shaking his head, he remembered Jerry's comments on the life of an attendant, for example, "I would much rather clean the crap of animals then that of a man. Especially a man I'm suppose to turn around and RESPECT."  
  
"Oh, Jer." he muttered under his breath, dropping the last of the laundry on the bed absently. "You lucky bastard."  
  
***  
  
Thomas stepped out of the Captain's Mess, pale with sea sickness already. This had BETTER be the trip of a lifetime or-  
  
He stepped in a large splotch of paint. Staring down at the wood grain in confusion, the boy looked up and all about - what the hell?  
  
Nothing. No one.  
  
Uneasy, he went on his way, ready to pitch in.  
  
***  
  
"I absolutely refuse!" Fuller snarled. "It's bad enough I talk him through eating, sleeping and BREATHING - I will NOT help the man use the toilet! . I'll won't bathe him either!"  
  
Wiggins tried to fight the image of Ratcliffe as a little dog. A little dog taken for a little walk to relieve himself or placed in a little tub for a scrub. He pictured Percy the Pug in a tin with loads of foamy bubbles. James Fuller knew nothing of servitude! He acted as though his charge were an animal - a canine - though, really, Wiggins treated canines better. He had pampered Percy like a wealthy toddler, bathed him regularly. GRR! Fuller was terrible! An unworthy-  
  
"Yes, really, Wiggins. a bath, indeed." Count Wexford-Smyth was seated in his special deck chair, watching the sky and listening to the water break. "He's not a savage." Hesitation. "You know, I hear they bathe every single day, the heathen cannibals. How terrifying. Bathing once a week is almost unheard of, but once a DAY? Goodness-"  
  
As the Count rambled onward, full throttle, Wiggins gave a quick nod and bow in obedient respect and then turned and was gone.  
  
"Strange fellow, he." Fuller crossed his arms.  
  
"Shouldn't you be with Ratcliffe?" the count, wearing a dark sleeping mask, pulled it up onto his forehead and off his eyes; his expression satirical, eyebrow raised before returning to his extremely diluted lemonade.  
  
Fuller's eyes widened instantly and he began to walk away. and then jog away. and then all out sprint!  
  
Humming pleasantly enough, Ratcliffe was painting on deck. Literally - no paper. He was repeatedly stepped on by busy sailors controlling the ship, but he didn't seem to notice a bit. He even failed to notice the footprints of paint carelessly strewn all over the ship. Everyone was stepping in his mess! He worked away, concentrating deeply.  
  
Fuller didn't want to sit with him and risk the feet of burly-  
  
"Listen here, your grace, it's bad enough your on this ship a'tall. but to start making demands when you contribute nothing but questionable cash back in England - go to hell, we didn't have room for all your lemon mixes and your fancy tarts. We can't spare space for all your nonsense. Look how you're guzzling the water! We have to get through a month, man, surely you've more sense than-"  
  
"Well, I've not choice but to dilute! If you'd simply brought my lemon mixes aboard-"  
  
"DON'T YOU-"  
  
"And furthermore, I-"  
  
"-won't be having that prissy little bath you requested, that's for damn sure!"  
  
"BATH!" the count nearly choked. "How DARE you! I'm not some primitive, godless wretch from the jungles!" Then turning to Wiggins, alarmed, "Wiggins, don't believe a word of it! I wouldn't even DREAM of bathing! This man is a lying monster! I'm NOT some stupid barbarian!"  
  
"That's debatable!" Ben shouted, really annoyed now.  
  
"Ben." Smith was suddenly behind Fuller, motioning to Ben in introduction.  
  
"Right. Ben. We've met." James nodded, trying to act as though he hadn't been eavesdropping.  
  
"What's he painting now?" John forced himself to be friendly, even though Ratcliffe was ruining the wood with hideous swamp colours. They had all spent several days together within the confines of the vessel and so far, despite all the insanity, no one had really killed anyone else yet.  
  
"It seems to be. murky swirls of darkness." James trailed off.  
  
Ratcliffe froze, eyes down on the wet paint. Slowly, he rose them to meet his friend's. "James. You always know. You're suppose to just KNOW."  
  
"Um." Fuller didn't follow.  
  
"You should just KNOW! You've always known everything, everything inside my mind." the tone drifted away, as though the lunatic was forgetting his temporary flair of passion. though it would gravely be the first of many.  
  
For there was one major flaw in their hasty ploy.  
  
Fuller the real couldn't read John Ratcliffe's mind as Fuller the fictional had.  
  
***  
  
Charles Fawkes paced furiously. "That ridiculous twit dared to dream I'd sit on the thrown. RUBBISH, absolute NONSENSE! I should have trusted my own judgment. I know the King - he would never, ever, EVER leave his safe little throne room. Never leave his little plays and fancy dinners and, and, ERR! I should have KNOWN! I mean, his majesty trusts ME to everything important! He knows he'll bungle anything important! I've always handled everything important! Now I'm stuck aboard this floating psycho ward-" He interrupted himself, shouting harshly, "KNOX! NOW!"  
  
Jiminy Knox entered instantly, without a word he set the sheets down on the bed and began tightening his new master's undergarments. Despite the chancellor's fury, he had still handpicked Knox as his attendant for this dangerous mission. The lad was very good. Efficient, clever, well-spoken; he was the all around the perfect tool. He was a cunning little creature. Just what was needed.  
  
"Well?" Charles asked, his tones cold. As much as he was warming up to Jiminy Knox inside, his exterior didn't betray him yet. A long life of harsh seriousness and a particularly fowl mood this day would make this conversation unpleasant for both.  
  
"John Smith seems quite capable, sir. The legends of him may prove true. His first and second mates are questionable characters, though. Wexford- Smyth is an imbecile. He's spoiled, extremely ignorant and he's been hindering this mission every step from the get-go with self-absorbed nonsense. He also has absolutely no control over his charge. Additionally, sir, I doubt he really has the finances to back this voyage. We may be in a lot of trouble when we return to Eng-"  
  
Sharply, "IF we ever manage to return to England, Knox, and furthermore, NO, Wexford-Smyth will be in trouble. No one else. He is responsible. He's the investor."  
  
Silence.  
  
"What else?"  
  
"Well, Ratcliffe's attendant, a fellow by the name of Wiggins - seems in quite a cold way lately. Most unlike him. Seems he was very fond of his former Master and is sorry to have been replaced by Fuller. He bares no ill- will towards the Count, mind you, but he's jealous something awful of being ousted out of his former position. Feels Fuller isn't worthy of it and whatnot. Fuller doesn't care one pence for Ratcliffe, after all."  
  
"Wiggins cares for Ratcliffe? Someone actually cares for that infamously treacherous, greedy, selfish-"  
  
"I've never heard of a servant more loyal that Wiggins, sir. Honestly. The man lives by the code of servitude to the letter. It's his entire existence."  
  
Annoyed suddenly, "He sounds like a proper attendant then. Perhaps you would like to switch with him for me?"  
  
"Begging your pardon, sir, I wasn't implying that I-"  
  
"Never mind, Knox, you've already put both feet in your mouth."  
  
"Apologies, sir. It was a statement about Ratcliffe and Wiggins' characters, not my own. Wiggins is made of steel to tolerate such a monster. that was all I meant to-"  
  
"Moving on. What else?"  
  
"James Fuller is a terribly careless, selfish, egotistical man, your lordship. He's neglectful of Ratcliffe. At least thrice the former Governor was nearly killed today - he's better off in Wiggins' care."  
  
"I see. Well, this is a difficult situation then. Wiggins no longer has control over Ratcliffe. The dolt decidedly only works with Fuller now. There's only one solution - a word with this arrogant ass. He has to take outstanding care of our prime asset. Without John Ratcliffe. well, the outcome is just too horrible to envision. We have to straighten Fuller out immediately, Knox. IMMEDIATELY. The fate of everything depends on the little knowledge Ratcliffe possesses."  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"Anything else?"  
  
"Just Ratcliffe. He's chilling, sir. Chills me right to the bone. I've seen much mental illness in my life, sir - but. there's something about his case that disturbs me deeply. He's. I."  
  
Fawkes sighed, annoyed, "That will be all, Knox. Send for Fuller."  
  
"Immediately, sir."  
  
As the young man exited quickly the chancellor was instantly sorry for being so sharp and unkind to him. He was a good servant, but if he wasn't treated properly he could prove disloyal. Perhaps a switch with Wiggins WAS in order. He would think on it. As much as he saw promise in Jiminy Knox. he would think on it all the same. no mistakes could be afforded, no mistakes at all.  
  
***  
  
"Centurion!" A very serious, commanding voice.  
  
Ratcliffe snapped to attention, realizing he was standing before a long line of soldiers standing like statutes; ready for orders. His orders. Fists to their hearts loyally, expressions motionless stone, they were waiting.  
  
"Centurion." Another soldier saluted, fist to heart.  
  
"Centurion!" And another.  
  
They were all dressed in glorious golden armor with enormous red plumes coming from their magnificent helmets. The image of power, pride and honour, the legionnaires were ready to die for their world, die for their leaders, die for the glory of Rome and the Roman dream. It was such a beautiful dream too! Just the idea, the concept - wonderful.  
  
"Centurion."  
  
Something nagged at the back of his mind, though. The sounds of soft water trickling. He glanced over his shoulder quickly and saw an enormous fountain - only it wasn't water - it was BLOOD.  
  
***  
  
Ratcliffe sat indifferently, stroking his kitten, leaning against the wall, a ray of light coming down the steps, striking his falsely handsome features casually. Sighing aloud, he glanced up sadly at James, "I think I've a sunburn, Jim."  
  
James frowned, unaccustomed to these nicknames suddenly thrown at him constantly. He sat down, nodding thoughtfully, for he was unsure how to respond. Jim? Good Lo-  
  
"My skin's never been the same after the tower, you realize. My eyes as well. Darkness for. for." Thinking. How long WAS he imprisoned?  
  
"Oh right, your exile in Raleigh Tower." Indifferent.  
  
"Yes, it was splendid until." Remembering. ".until."  
  
James glanced up, almost caring.  
  
"Walter left." Ratcliffe concluded. "It was wonderful until Walter left."  
  
"Walter?" Confused.  
  
"My friend. He was imprisoned with me. and then." Hesitant. "He died."  
  
Walter. Walter. Walter. James batted the name about intensely, extremely curious. He'd had no idea Ratcliffe had been up there with another prisoner. A prisoner who died mysteriously - executed in secret? Assassinated in secret? Died of a mysterious ailment? Regardless, the second prison was covered up. a conspiracy!  
  
Wait. one. second - Ratcliffe was certifiable. How could be certain anyone had been up there? He opened his mouth to question this entire business, when he realized sharply that he was suppose to already know exactly who Walter was and everything about the situation. DAMN. Counseling this bugger would prove most difficult, it seemed.  
  
That's when it slapped him in the face. "Walter Raleigh."  
  
A miserable nod of confirmation.  
  
Masking his alarm, he stated calmly, "Now, John, you know as well as anyone that Walter Raleigh was imprisoned there years ago. Died years ago too."  
  
No response for a long while, then - "He was a dear friend to me, Jim."  
  
"Yes, I recall your life long friendship. Shame he died." James failed to mention he'd HEARD about it and READ about it - he didn't share the experiences as one mind with his charge. No, he delicately left that part out.  
  
Heavy sigh from Ratcliffe. So depressed. So melancholy.  
  
"Well, a traitor gets a traitor's end. no matter how glorious a life they lead, I'm afraid."  
  
John's back stiffened abruptly, his expression hardening.  
  
Noticing, "John?"  
  
"Walter was innocent, you idiot - INNOCENT!"  
  
Startled, then offended, "What's this?"  
  
"Walter Raleigh was no traitor. He was INNOCENT."  
  
A long, awkward silence.  
  
"Hard to believe we're even talking about THE Walter Raleigh. I mean, if I hadn't spoken to King James himself IN PERSON earlier this week. I." the surgeon trailed off, thinking. "Wow. If this quest goes over well, I'll have the fame and fortune I've always dreamed of, John. I mean, I'm already rubbing elbows with the rich and famous! How long before I'm among them?"  
  
Ratcliffe frowned hard, "I wanted those too, Jim. Fame and fortune. As did Walter. As did Barty. Same damn destructive trail - a road always ending in suffering and death. We were all after glory. Even the Romans. and look what happened to them. Destruction." He sighed sadly before adding quietly, ".the glory of Rome."  
  
How could he respond to THIS? . "Um. what's this now?"  
  
Grave, very grave - "They took Columbus away in chains."  
  
Hesitating slightly, James dared to cautiously voice his realization, "He was Governor at that time, too. A Governor taken away in chains. You two have more in common with than you realize, John."  
  
Silence.  
  
"This physiological connection you've made with Columbus-"  
  
"THRICE!" Ratcliffe unexpectedly exploded. "Thrice in chains!"  
  
"Three times." James confirmed grimly. "That's right." This poor wretch had been marched in chains before jeering crowds three times, mark that up against Christopher's once and-  
  
John frowned, as though thinking deeply and then concluded, "You're wrong. You're wrong, Jim. I'm not Chris. I'm Barty."  
  
Hesitation.  
  
"I thought he was a Governor too, though. He founded San Diego or something. I don't know. Wait. didn't he die? His name. it was the Italian take on Bartholomew. can't remember, ANYWAY, did he not die?"  
  
"Barty was killed by-"  
  
Silence. Nothing. Ratcliffe was clearly struck by some harsh-  
  
***  
  
"Make me proud, Barty! I love you!" Chris called from the docks.  
  
***  
  
Shaking his head, Ratcliffe tried to fight the delusion.  
  
James, unfortunately, failed to sense his role and merely watched in confusion. He needed to stop the hallucinations, the personas. but-  
  
"Chris." Ratcliffe unexpectedly whimpered. "Oh. Chris."  
  
Uneasy, sensing the problem, "UM. John. Chris is long dead. He never existed within your lifetime. Nor did Barty. You don't know either of these men and you are NOT either of these men. It's all a dream. Do you understand me? You are John Ratcliffe. JOHN RATCLIFFE."  
  
Abruptly, "CHRIS!" Sharp, as though in tremendous pain.  
  
Startled, Jim nearly jumped. He'd sensed his roll too late. He was losing his charge to the madness!  
  
"JOHN!" Snatching back the reigns, remembering Wiggins' description of the former Jim Fuller's methods. "JOHN!" Shaking the fool roughly. "You listen to me and you listen well - you are John Ratcliffe and you will stop this madness now! I will not be humiliated by you, John. I won't stand for this stupidity! Are you listening?"  
  
Whimpering.  
  
"Are you listening? Don't make me hit you, John! Don't make me-"  
  
Whimpering, "I'm sorry, Jim. I'm very sorry."  
  
"You'd best be sorry, John. You just forget this Chris and Barty nonsense. Forget it altogether, understand? Don't disgrace me!"  
  
"Yes, Jim. I'll forget. I won't bring you shame. I'm sorry."  
  
"Good."  
  
They sat together in silence, James Fuller realizing he'd had a very close call. He'd almost blown his cover as the controlling figment of Ratcliffe's imagination. Well, now he knew the ropes. Now he had control. He just had to bluff his way through the next few months and he'd be one of the most famous men to ever exist! A legend! One of the Fathers of Immortality!  
  
He smiled unexpectedly to himself and Ratcliffe noticed, "What is it, Jim? What are you thinking of?"  
  
His smile grew as it was acknowledged. Sighing lightly, content, "Oh, nothing, John. Just, I say again, old boy - my most outrageous fantasies are about to come true."  
  
Ratcliffe's expression was hard to describe. Confused? Skeptical?  
  
"John, I'm going to live forever. and I'll live forever as one of the most famous and glorious people imaginable. I never even DREAMED-"  
  
"Glory." Ratcliffe's expression darkened. "I was willing to DIE for glory, Jim. We ALL were. I. I."  
  
***  
  
A sudden, unexpected drop. Startled, butterflies inside SLAM! AH! Pain, stunned, reacting, reacting HELP! HELP! HELP! Neck, neck - kick, kick, KICK!! Weaker. weaker. Fading away. painfully.  
  
***  
  
Ratcliffe seemed to seize up, eyes wide in alarm.  
  
"John?" James sat up, tense.  
  
"I. I. DID."  
  
"What is it, John?"  
  
"Jim. I. I really DIED for glory. I died for glory!"  
  
Before the keeper could answer his charge, Ratcliffe burst out with, "Glory is POISON, Jim! POISON! It brings pirates and madness, a hangman's noose and the FALL OF ROME!"  
  
"JOHN." A very dark, warning voice. "I warned you. Stop-"  
  
Hurriedly, afraid, "I'm so sorry, Jim. Lost myself again."  
  
Silence between them for a long, long while, before.  
  
John's eyes widened, terrified - "The fountain!"  
  
Blinking, "Yes, of course. The fountain." This was exactly what he needed the fool to talk about. He needed information. As much as possible before anything should happen. "What about the fountain, John?"  
  
Very troubled, shaking his head, "No, Jim, no. Why are you taking me back to the fountain?"  
  
Now or never - "John, I know best. You know that. We must go back."  
  
Eyes wet, voice breaking, "I don't ever want to go back. You know that. Why would you do this to me, Jim? Why would you take me back?"  
  
"I know, John. I know. TRUST ME. I know best."  
  
Clearing his throat, fighting tears, "I trust you, Jim. Just please take care of me. I'm afraid. Please take care of me, Jim. I'm so afraid." And then the tears fell, noisily. it would have been heartbreaking had James cared for anyone but himself.  
  
"I won't let anything happen to you, John. I promise. Trust me. Just TRUST." James gripped his hands tightly. "Don't be afraid."  
  
John nodded, though the tears still silently fell.  
  
Jim looked away, confused and uncomfortable. His mind was in mild blur. On one front, he'd never been more thrilled or excited in all his life. On the other. well. he was quite nervous. Savages, responsibility over the lunatic who had the only mental map. that and superstition - he was rather superstitious at heart. Surely the fountain of youth would. well.  
  
"Is the fountain cursed? Is that why you're afraid to return?"  
  
"Remember Dorian Gray?"  
  
"Who?"  
  
"Never mind. Just asking."  
  
"Who on earth is Dor-"  
  
"Never mind, Jim. Don't hit me. I think I made him up."  
  
"Well, stop all this madness. I warned you about madness, John!"  
  
"I know. I'm sorry."  
  
"Now, is there a curse? . Think!"  
  
"It's. difficult. complicated."  
  
"What?"  
  
"It's. difficult." Hesitation, trailing off, then unexpectedly, "I'm sleepy. Where's my kitten?"  
  
"I'm your ARMS, John." Fuller's face buried into his knees, his voice a frustrated whine. This was no job for a man of his-  
  
***  
  
"Fuller's improved greatly after your talk, lordship. He seems to have real control over Ratcliffe now. Even had him talking about the fountain this morning. Things look promising."  
  
Stroking Ratcliffe's kitten, "Excellent, Knox. I'll make an espionage expert of you, yet."  
  
"Thank you, sir." Jiminy was very serious, nodded respectfully.  
  
"There's bustle amongst the crew about a curse. These fools are as superstitious as pirates, something I cannot abide."  
  
"Speaking of the crew, sir, permission to speak freely?"  
  
"Always. Never ask again. You may not realize it, Jiminy Knox, but you're here to advise me." Hesitation. "But don't you dare flatter yourself, understand? I see your potential and I intend to use it to my advantage. Remain loyal to me and serve me with all you've got and I'll make something of you, understand? Otherwise I'll switch you with Wiggins and you'll spend you life with that FOOL Wexford-Smyth who can offer you nothing. Nothing at all. I, on the other hand, have everything to offer."  
  
"Understood, sir. We didn't need to have this conversation. I need no incentive. I only regret placing my loyalty to you in question. I am greatly honoured you handpicked me and I vow not to disappoint."  
  
Hesitation and then, "Well? What were you wishing to say?"  
  
"Oh, yes, sir - I just. I feel you should spend more time on deck and amongst the crew. It would be in your best interest."  
  
***  
  
"A curse?" Smith's eyebrow rose skeptically. "Believe me, if I had a piece of ate for every single time someone warned me fearfully of a curse, I'd be the richest man alive. I'm an adventurer, man - that curse crap is just that - crap. People scratch a few intimidating words in stone to protect their precious treasure after they're no longer alive to protect it themselves."  
  
"But the protectors of the fountain. surely. they would always be alive to protect it." Wiggins muttered quietly.  
  
The small party assembled in the Captain's Mess glanced over at the attendant, having missed his little comment.  
  
Sheepish, he blushed. "Nothing, sirs. Apologies."  
  
Returning to Fuller, the Captain cleared his throat, "Listen, Doctor, there's no need to be superstitious. I-"  
  
Ben snorted, "Don't listen. Of course there's a curse. There's always a curse. Who bluffs after their dead and buried? Think about it, Fuller. They wouldn't count on WORDS to protect their treasure - empty words. No, there's really a curse."  
  
Wiggins rolled his eyes, back turned. That made NO sense at all.  
  
"Well, listen, Ben." John wasn't impressed. "I understand what you're trying to say. I know how superstitious sailors are. I just. well. curses DON'T protect. They kick in after the treasure's already taken or the site's already destroyed. The THREAT deters the destruction and theft, not the curse. The curse isn't real."  
  
"Wait, yes." Fuller saw John's point overruled Ben's.  
  
Lon cut in here, "No, no, John. You're both half right and half wrong. Now, listen - the truth is, Fuller, curses are real. and the words are for protection. but the curse itself is for REVENGE. Follow me? The words are prevention, but if all else fails, there's the CURSE for revenge."  
  
"Ah, yes." Ben understood. "The dead one hope the words will be feared and respected, but just in case they aren't - there really IS a curse as punishment."  
  
"Yes, otherwise, why would they bother to put a warning up at all?" Lon concluded, proud of himself. "They hope the curse won't have to be carried out, but hey - if they have to, pay back's beautiful, right?"  
  
"You're logical, yes. I admit I see your point." Smith acknowledged, "However. I just. I don't believe in curses, boys. Not at all. I've walked through too many sacred chambers and taken too many hidden treasures and gotten along without a scratch. Curses are just a bluff. I mean, how COULD they be real? Surely you don't believe-"  
  
John cut himself off, remembering the talking tree. Clearing his throat uncomfortably he added, "WELL, there's always the possibility they're real. I mean, ANYTHING is always possible, right? I say again, though, boys - I'm walking-talking proof that thousands of curses have been bluffs."  
  
"Don't listen to him at all, Fuller. John here doesn't even believe in witchcraft." Ben snorted.  
  
James eyes widened. "Surely, Captain - I mean, I've KNOWN witches!"  
  
Ben laughed, "We all have, lad."  
  
"No, REALLY!" James was distressed. "Next thing you'll say he doesn't believe in GOD! I mean, witchcraft is the opposite of GOD! To not believe in witches is to not believe in GOD, Smith!"  
  
Wiggins, listening the entire time, couldn't control his reaction here. He looked up, wide eyed himself. This was getting intense.  
  
"Now, really." John frowned. "I wouldn't go that far."  
  
Lon - "John believes in God alright, Fuller. He's just unorthodox."  
  
"Well, if the man doesn't believe in WITCHCRAFT, how can I possibly take his opinions on curses seriously?" Fuller's nose seemed to shoot up in the air, almost arrogant.  
  
"Exactly my point, Fuller. Exactly my point." Ben muttered.  
  
***  
  
Count Wexford-Smyth was so impressed he was giddy. "What a beautiful picture, Ratcliffe! Absolutely stunning likeness! Smith, Wiggins - you simply must see this!"  
  
As Fuller watched, his reality seemed hazy around the edges.  
  
Smith seemed to gasp, "Good LORD, it's magnificent!"  
  
"It looks just like him! I. I." Wiggins stuttered into silence.  
  
"I know! It's remarkable, isn't it?" the noble was beside himself, smiling. "I'll have to get him to paint me next! It's simply smashing! It's as though the painting has a life of its own!"  
  
A life of its own.  
  
Ratcliffe, watching the trio, suddenly notice his mentor. "Jim, come and see. It's YOU. I've painted you."  
  
Surprised. Fuller was surprised.  
  
Wexford-Smyth glanced up, "Yes, Doctor! Come at once! It's a masterpiece! I looks exactly like you!"  
  
James approached cautiously and someone turned the canvas around to face him. He was so startled he couldn't speak. It looked nothing like him. Not at all. It wasn't he. No. It was.  
  
It was Dorian Gray. He didn't know how he knew, but he definitely knew. It was Dorian Gray.  
  
***  
  
Dark bruising under his exhausted eyes, Jim glanced up from his morning tea feeling very ill. His fork tapping his plate now and again as he played distractedly with his food.  
  
Thomas, rubbing his burning, prickling eyes finally scowled, "ERR! You'll think I'm out of my head but I swear that cat's making my eyes itch!"  
  
Wiggins frowned from the counter, "Perhaps its hexed."  
  
Thomas looked uneasy, "It IS gray."  
  
Unexpectedly, Fuller slammed his fork down on the table; loud and hard. Startled, the pair exchanged expressions, Wiggins worried the surgeon had taken offense. They hadn't been mocking his fear of superstition - witches really did work with dark cats! It was a sincere-  
  
However, he surprised them with a question, "Who the hell is Dorian Gray?"  
  
His back to the Doctor, cutting vegetables, Wiggins blinked.  
  
"Dorian Gray, who is he?"  
  
Wiggins turned slowly, "It sounds familiar. though I can't say."  
  
Thomas shook his head, oblivious, "Never heard of him."  
  
"Does ANYONE know? I've asked about for days! Ratcliffe mentioned him once in passing and now I can't stop dreaming of him!"  
  
"Dorian Gray." Wiggins was thinking. "Hm."  
  
Fuller waited hopefully, but the servant seemed to come up blank, so he added, "By the way, has Ratcliffe ever painted anything decent? My portrait for example?"  
  
Taken aback, "Um. he paints lovely landscapes now and again - he thinks you make them, though - that's the only way he can manage to trick himself into it. Walter use to paint - Walter Raleigh - I think that's where this symbolic obsession is steaming from, sir."  
  
Tom blinked. Wiggins had his head on straight or something. Wow.  
  
There was a silence between the three and then Fuller started up again, "ERR! Speaking of such, the dreams grow more real and confusing every night! Last night's symbolism implied that I'M Dorian Gray! Maybe. I don't know. I was never one for symbolism and dream interpretation and all that sort of-"  
  
"Perhaps you are then. Dorian Gray, I mean." Thomas shrugged. "He's a madman, after all. He could just be messing with you. and you're only dreaming about this Dorian coz its working. It's getting to you."  
  
"What?"  
  
"I don't know." Wiggins frowned. "If you want answers, Doctor, you know the only place you'll find them."  
  
"I can't get a straight answer from that madman, Wiggins!"  
  
"He really is mad." Thomas frowned. "At first light today he approached me very solemnly and then one-knee-knelt with his fist across his chest at his heart saying something like: 'General' respectfully. It seemed some sort of salute. I don't know. He seems to think he's a soldier. At least today."  
  
Fuller groaned, face in his hands. "OOOOHHH. make sure you tell me when he does stuff like that, Thomas! I have to win his mind back, not loose it even further!"  
  
Silence around the table and then a sigh from Fuller. He continued with, "I hate it when he gets onto all that ancient Roman foolishness. I especially hate it when he pretends to BE an ancient Roman!"  
  
Thomas blinked, "He was playing at a legionnaire?"  
  
"Do WE salute fist to heart, Thomas?" Fuller muttered sarcastically, head hanging. This was so damn difficult. He'd never gain control over that lunatic. "I just hate it when he plays legionnaire! ERR!"  
  
"Centurion Marcellus." Wiggins spoke simply, slicing another potato. He didn't even look at them, eyes on his blade.  
  
Blinking, "What?" Fuller was confused.  
  
"That's his persona when he's the Roman, sir. Marcellus. A centurion of Rome."  
  
"Whatever." Jim covered his eyes again, groaning. "This is a MESS."  
  
"I rather liked Marcellus. A formidable fellow. Much better than all the other people in there." Wiggins almost smiled.  
  
Thomas almost chuckled, the expression was certainly there.  
  
"How can I cure this idiot?" Fuller sighed deeply.  
  
"Patience, Doctor." Wiggins smiled. "Just keep driving these multiple personalities away and soon enough you'll have him back."  
  
"JOY." Thomas muttered, looking away.  
  
***  
  
The answer to Dorian came easier then expected. Ratcliffe answered the direct question quite simply, "Dorian? Dorian comes to me in my sleep, Jim. He's a painting. A painting of a gorgeous young man who never sleeps."  
  
James paled instantly, frightened. "What. did. you."  
  
The paintings from the dreams! PAINTINGS. How the HELL-  
  
"He's a painting, Jim. Or at least, he lives upon a canvas. His lips don't move but he never stops talking to me. Dorian Gray. A beautiful name for a beautiful face. He's as gorgeous as a God, Jim. In fact, he is a God, I think. He never sleeps. Never ever. He stays young and beautiful forever."  
  
Pale, afraid, confused - "Explain, John. Explain right now."  
  
"Dorian has eternal youth. There's nothing more to-"  
  
"He drank from the fountain?"  
  
"No. I think. I don't know, Jim. He does terrible things, though. He does unspeakably terrible things. He has no soul."  
  
"He's evil?" James' voice caught weakly in his throat.  
  
"No, no - he literally has no soul. Literally."  
  
"He."  
  
"That's his secret. He sold his soul for all this."  
  
"But-"  
  
"He didn't drink from the fountain, Jim. but he watches over it."  
  
Silence. Very frightened silence. Remembering the eyes from the portrait, the beautiful, but watchful eyes.  
  
***  
  
"Quit asking about this Dorian character!" Smith was annoyed. "No one's heard of him and I don't believe in-"  
  
"Lon, please - you're the only other person present who's been exposed to the fountain! Do you dream of-"  
  
"I've told you twice now. NO. I don't know anything about a soulless Dorian!"  
  
"I'm sorry. I just-"  
  
Smith, "If it was connected to the water. why would YOU experience it?"  
  
Good point. "UM. I suspect. um."  
  
"There's no CURSE, Fuller." Smith tossed his rag and walked away.  
  
***  
  
God, the hours were rolling by so slowly. He wasn't the type to come down with cabin fever though, no - it was this particular situation, these particular people. Heaven, this was horrible! Wexford-Smyth was back to his happy self again, but he, Wiggins, remained dark and bitter still. No longer himself. Glimpses of his goodness slipped through. but. he was worn down still. Miserable.  
  
To be replaced by that selfish, greedy, arrogant, ignorant surgeon! That self-absorbed, ambitious fantasy chaser! ERRR! He didn't care at all about serving! He didn't care for anyone but himself! There were countless times Ratcliffe had nearly died thus far - Fuller was unfit for his position as caretaker! He lacked the key thing: CARE! He DIDN'T care! He was careless in every sense of the word! He had no positive feelings for his charge at all and he was irresponsible!  
  
Frustrated, Wiggins continued to clear the paperwork on the man's desk. Fuller's side of the quarters were reasonably clean, while Ratcliffe's portion of floor was atrocious - paper everywhere, endless artwork.  
  
Sighing aloud, the attendant dropped dejectedly to his knees. He began to pick up the pages, creating one uniform pile of madness in his arms. That's when he hit the faces.  
  
Months earlier, he'd seen the hidden faces in red. The damned souls, screeching and crying. These however, were quite different. They were pathetic water colour portraits of a young man. portraits always in black and shades of gray. only. the faces were blank.  
  
Chillingly blank faces again and again. he dug through paper after paper and they were all similar. hauntingly similar.  
  
Frowning, Wiggins was suddenly startled by a presence in the doorway. Startled to the point of distress, feeling as though he'd been caught at something, the servant whirled around.  
  
"Wiggins." James Fuller started to speak, eyes down on his notes, his tone and expression hard and indifferent to all but himself and his-  
  
Jim froze, having glanced at-  
  
"What. the." his voice broke as he looked at face after face.  
  
"What's wrong?" Wiggins felt more chilled then ever now.  
  
Jim couldn't answer. He dropped his clipboard and rushed from the room as though about to be physically ill.  
  
***  
  
Blurry, the edges all blurry.  
  
John Ratcliffe, the world blurred all around him in Jim's haunted slumber, glanced up from his professional canvas, the epitome of dark knowledge. "I told you, Jim. Our path leads us to suffering, destruction and death. The fountain is no different. I've done nothing but SUFFER since I found it. Glory is POISON."  
  
Dorian kept whispering. Whispering and whispering.  
  
***  
  
Charles Fawkes walked about the ship proudly, head held high, Knox trailing along loyally. In his arms he held Ratcliffe's adorable gray kitten.  
  
Passing Thomas, the youth glanced up, irritated. Not only did his eyes itch, that character rubbed him the wrong way. Turning to Lon, "Who's this guy? Reminds me of Ratcliffe."  
  
Lon frowned, "Nah. Totally different. Charles is likeable. He's just in a very, very sour mood these days. Angry at being replaced in the throne room. Angry at being thrown on an adventure - totally out of his element, poor bugger."  
  
"But - OH. Martinez, right. It's all the gossip." Thomas muttered.  
  
"That Spaniard's up to something, mark my words." Lon grumbled.  
  
***  
  
"Where's my kitten?" Ratcliffe was sadly wandering about the room.  
  
Exasperated, "ERR, John! He's right-" Oh. Crap. The cat wasn't in his arms this morning. Glancing around the room, Jim realized the little gray ball of sleep was nowhere to be found. Uh oh.  
  
"He keeps disappearing." the former Governor was growing very upset. "Where's my kitten, Jim? Where is he?"  
  
Time to change the subject, "Who's Walter Raleigh, John?"  
  
"Walter? A close companion of days gone by. now." Wandering, still wanting, but starting to lose track of what he wanted. ".where.?"  
  
"That's right. I understand you were the best of friends growing up, you and Walter. Grew up together, shared all the same exciting interests. He traveled to the New World shortly after you and started his own colony. You both loved exploration, adventure-"  
  
Distant, "We were fortune seekers, Jim. Treasure hunters."  
  
"The real deal Walter Raleigh. Every time I play it over in my mind, John. you, I mean, YOU grew up with THE Walter Raleigh. The famous, swashbuckling, glorious Walter Raleigh. I mean, I-"  
  
"Well, YES, you ARE talking to a political official." Ratcliffe was somewhat offended. "I know countless nobles, royals. men of fame." he trailed off, sadder still. "At least, I did. Long ago. Now I'm dead to them all."  
  
"That's true. You're not a political official anymore. That life really is dead to you. They pretend not to know you, John. Not to remember. That was another life altogether. You aren't Governor anymore."  
  
Shock. "I'm not?"  
  
Uh oh.  
  
"Um."  
  
"I'm not?"  
  
This had the potential to be the greatest catastrophe between them to date. One wrong syllable here and calamity would ensue ending in disaster. Complete and total- Oh. Right.  
  
"Tell me about Walter, John."  
  
Distracted instantly, "Walter?"  
  
"Yes, Walter. Your friend. The fellow we've been speaking of."  
  
"You know all about Walter, James. Everyone does. He was good at everything, famous for everything. Man was everything from a poet to a swordsman. A noble, an artist, a writer, an explorer - everything. God, we shared a love for adventure. and glory. and."  
  
"Yes, he explored the New World shortly after you, John. Settled there. We just discussed this all."  
  
Hesitation. "We did?"  
  
"Yes, Walter's famously mysterious colony. Very famous and very mysterious. It disappeared. Literally."  
  
Further hesitation, troubled suddenly, "Where's my kitten, Jim? I don't want to talk about this. I-"  
  
"The colony disappeared, John. Surely-"  
  
"Well, we all know all about that." John dismissed the subject sharply.  
  
"No, we don't. What really happened out there?"  
  
***  
  
"PLEASE - my family! PLEASE! For the love of GOD, you Grace, my wife and children are out there!"  
  
***  
  
"I don't remember." Obvious lie. Blocking something sharply.  
  
"John."  
  
***  
  
"John, if there's anything you can do. Anything at all."  
  
Walking away, not listening.  
  
"John, please. John! I have to get back to-" Desperate. "John!" Extremely desperate. "JOHN!!"  
  
***  
  
Grimacing suddenly. "I don't remember, I tell you! Leave it alone!"  
  
James frowned, "Well, if I recall the stories. Walter Raleigh established his little colony, but living off the land proved more difficult then they'd anticipated and they were eventually low on ammunition, etc. so. Raleigh returned to England for more supplies. Unfortunately, upon his arrival he was denied supplies AND denied a return trip to the New World altogether."  
  
***  
  
"But. my. family." Walter was so shocked. "My loyal followers."  
  
"Perhaps in a year or two. This 'New World' isn't the treasure chest you promised, Walter. It's costing a FORTUNE to colonize, especially transportation there and back - His majesty is losing interest."  
  
"A. a YEAR or two!? This is outrageous! They'll STARVE out there! Winter is coming! They won't. they. my. children."  
  
"Then or never. King's orders, Raleigh."  
  
***  
  
Fuller sighed, "And then there's the legend. you know, about the tree with the words carved into it and the smoking fire. as though. I don't know, I'm sure its just child's play. A silly story." Careful pause. "Unless you know different, John."  
  
***  
  
Walter Raleigh stood silent, staring over the clearing where his settlement had once stood.  
  
Deserted. Absolutely barren.  
  
Except for a small, still smoking fire.  
  
Raleigh couldn't even speak. He just stood, frozen. And then, unexpectedly, he broke into a mad run and began searching everywhere. Absolutely everywhere. calling the name's of his children.  
  
And that's when he saw it - dead ahead, right before his blue eyes.  
  
It was carved deeply into the trunk of a birch tree.  
  
Just that one word. One foreign word. Whatever the hell it meant.  
  
***  
  
"Obviously eaten by savages." Fuller formed an expression of disgust.  
  
Ratcliffe said nothing.  
  
"Two years. Ghost of Caesar, John. King James never did like Walter, though."  
  
Hesitation. "No. He didn't. Queen Elizabeth loved him. Absolutely adored him, in fact. Established him as a great man. Sadly, her predecessor turned the tables and Walter never recovered."  
  
"Right. A fall from grace. Unexpected slammed from the inner circle he'd ruled over for years and years, am I right?"  
  
Ratcliffe merely sighed in conformation, eyes down. "Walter's life was glorious until James took the throne. Then. well. you know the rest."  
  
"Was Raleigh really a traitor? You said-"  
  
***  
  
"Walter Raleigh, before this Court and the eyes of GOD, I sentence you to death for conspiracy and treason."  
  
"NO!" Walter shrieked, flinging himself forward though restrained.  
  
A ruckus. Mallet slamming down. "Order! I say, ORDER!"  
  
"NO!!!" Walter struggled as they dragged him towards a side exit.  
  
John Ratcliffe, much older and less attractive, stood watching with an expression of extremely dark judgment.  
  
***  
  
"It's not my fault." Ratcliffe mumbled into his lips. "Not my."  
  
"John?"  
  
"I. I."  
  
***  
  
"John! You know I'm innocent, John! You're my best friend! Please! Say something, DO SOMETHING - save me, John! HELP ME!"  
  
Ratcliffe just stood, watching as they dragged Raleigh towards the executioner's block.  
  
"JOHN! PLEASE!"  
  
Deep inside. something seemed to twitch. a twinge of some unhappy emotion. As dark and ambitious as Ratcliffe had become over the years fighting for a place amongst the new king's court - he still loved Walter dearly, as dearly as a brother, a father, a cousin. he was virtually family. As tough an act as John put on, as dark a mask. he was breaking inside, any instant he would lung forward, cry out - act out, do something, anything to save-  
  
A hand clamped down on his shoulder, hard. His father. A very hideous old man. Hideous in face, body, heart and soul. One eye small and forever shut, the man was practically blind as he tightened his grip in serious warning.  
  
***  
  
Ratcliffe shook his head very hard. That wasn't right. His father had been dead for many, many years. Many years. There was no way his father could have possibly had ANYTHING to do with-  
  
And wait - his father hadn't looked like that at all. That hideous creature. That monster. That ugly, ugly- BLIND, it had been blind too.  
  
Symbolism. The dark, hatred filled ambition of his father - blind and repulsive - had poisoned him and influenced him. especially on that sinister day. The day Walter-  
  
***  
  
"Walter Raleigh-"  
  
The charges were being read by an emotionless, indifferent, yet very firm, judging voice. Ratcliffe couldn't break the locked gaze he shared intensely with his best friend. Their eye contact never broke. Never to the very last.  
  
"Does the prisoner have any last words before his sentence is-"  
  
"Yes." Walter stood, ready to recite what he'd planned syllable by syllable for days now. "Yes, I wish to speak."  
  
A hush fell instantly over the crowd.  
  
***  
  
"John. where are you?" James Fuller whispered into his charge's ear. He watched the man intensely stare off into space, clearly somewhere else. Clearly experiencing something, reliving something extreme.  
  
"John?" the surgeon repeated. "What do you see?"  
  
Softly, distant, "Walter's eyes."  
  
***  
  
Walter had always been such a beautiful speaker - an artist, a lover, a poet, a writer, a singer, a dancer, a swordsman, a horseman, a-  
  
And then the axe fell and it was the most horrible moment of John Ratcliffe's life. A moment he allowed all too willingly. He'd done nothing. The crying, the begging, the screaming from Raleigh kept playing over and over again in his damaged mind.  
  
"JOHN! JOHN, PLEASE! . JOHN!!!"  
  
His children, his wife, his very life - and the man's best friend had done nothing. Turned a blind eye because of his evil, ugly ambition.  
  
And that's when the most painful memory of all struck.  
  
Raleigh gripped the Governor, just as they had the poor, terrified fellow on the steps up towards the axe:  
  
"Johnny, please!" He whispered, so petrified, tears spilling. "Johnny! I'm afraid! I'm so afraid! I don't want to die! I can't die like this, Johnny! Help me!"  
  
Ratcliffe pulled away.  
  
"JOHN! I'M AFRAID, JOHN! I'M AFRAID!" Raleigh screeched as they dragged him brutally up the steps towards his doom.  
  
***  
  
Remembering this, present-day Ratcliffe cried for three days straight, pitching the most outrageous fits imaginable. He nearly killed himself repeatedly, the abuse he laid down upon himself with his own hands was so fierce - such emotional agony was his. He wouldn't eat or sleep either - he could do nothing but morn and torment himself insanely.  
  
Three full days.  
  
"WALTER!!"  
  
James Fuller, sitting in the corner, disturbed beyond all bounds, when all was said and done days later, told the other's - "I've never seen or heard of someone repenting so hard, so deeply. He was so damn sorry and I'll never understand why. He won't tell me what he's done wrong. Such PAIN and REGRET."  
  
"Perhaps he was sorry for all the business with our Captain?" Lon suggested quietly; troubled, remembering the banshee shrieks from Ratcliffe's quarters - which had to be barred for everyone's safety. Fuller had fortunately come out days later untouched, having stayed out of the way and let the storm run its course.  
  
Jim frowned, "No, no - it was something Raleigh-related."  
  
Wiggins paled. but said absolutely nothing.  
  
***  
  
Ratcliffe lay on the floor of his quarters, his face soaked with bitter tears. He'd simmered immensely, but he was still emotionally devastated. He couldn't seem to recover from the true comprehension of his actions. He couldn't escape the pain, the regret, the horror of it all. Walter! He would do ANYTHING to see Walter again.  
  
***  
  
Racing excitedly through the golden wheat, two little girls were squealing with childish delight. From a distance, their older cousin sat watching with his best friend, a solemn fellow concentrating on his latest painting. It would surely be a masterpiece, much like all his other creations.  
  
"Blue, please." Walter smiled absently. He was painting the girl's in the field and his sky definitely needed work. "It's really coming along. just the sky now, really." As his friend handed over the vial of paint he smirked satirically, "Would you like to keep this one, dearest?"  
  
"You let me keep them all, darling." Right back at him, mocking.  
  
"Not all of them. I gave that abstract take on the garden to mother. and there was that lovely landscape I offered the Queen."  
  
"She seems very fond of you, Walter. Too fond. I'd watch myself if I were you." John smirked. "You're flirtation gives you power now, but it would be disgusting if she actually expected something of you. I'd hate for you to become some sort of concubine."  
  
Raleigh smirked right back, eyes on his canvas, "That's slanderous, Jonathon. Respect your Queen."  
  
They shared a very contradicting gaze that matched their smirks, but they said nothing and laughed on the inside, experts at their social craft.  
  
Sighing, John turned away, "It's a beautiful day, isn't it?"  
  
"Oh, absolutely Johnny!" Walter grinned pleasantly, instantly light hearted. Their lives were so fun filled. He was such a happy young fellow. So amiable, so cordial! "Finest day this fortnight, easily." A pause as he listened to the girls at play. "You're cousins are adorable. Remember when we use to race around like that squealing ourselves silly?"  
  
"Oh, you mean yesterday?" Ratcliffe smirked.  
  
Walter chuckled, but before he could answer, the town clock over the trees chimed lightly. It was time for lunch. Excellent.  
  
***  
  
Ratcliffe lay on the varnished floor, face red, wet and bruised from endless tears. He was an absolute mess. he couldn't go on.  
  
"Walter." he whimpered, pained deeply. "Walter."  
  
And then, most unexpectedly, a cool, damp cloth wiped his face gently. It felt wonderful. "Shhhh." a soothing voice hushed his whimpers. "I'm here. It's alright. I'm here."  
  
Relieved, Ratcliffe instantly improved. Gradually calming, he closed his eyes and began to drift into slumber.  
  
"That's right, just relax."  
  
It was Wiggins. and for the first time in weeks, he felt himself.  
  
Ratcliffe, drifting to sleep, was hallucinating dear Walter over him; kissing his forehead and comforting him. Forgiving him. Walter. However, it was just Wiggins sitting there, no real affection at all, just the ever- loyal attendant.  
  
***  
  
Smith stared out over the waters, thinking deeply.  
  
Lon was suddenly behind him, "We've no choice, John. You know that. We have to stop there. . Don't worry. We won't let Ratcliffe off."  
  
John didn't answer. That wasn't what worried him.  
  
This was going to be terrible awkward. Downright uncomfortable.  
  
***  
  
Count Wexford-Smyth was humming merrily as he rested in his deck chair, the sun colouring his skin perfectly. It was so warm and wonderful. The sounds of the ship and sea. too bad there wasn't more of a breeze though.  
  
"Faster, please."  
  
A roasting Wiggins was fanning his master hurriedly, sweating buckets.  
  
Fawkes approached arrogantly, in a world of his own as he observed the crew at work. He commented lightly now and then to young Knox, who scurried after him with a parasol to protect his master's delicate complexion from the burning sun.  
  
Wiggins watched the lad awkwardly sway here and there as the ship rocked in the waves. He was having great difficulty keeping the parasol over the chancellor's head. Remembering his own first sea voyage, Wiggins would have literally laughed aloud had it not been for the strict conditioning of servitude.  
  
"Ah, Fawkes and Knox." Wexford-Smyth rhymed dryly to his servant, noticing the pair headed their way. "Lovely."  
  
"Count." Charles nodded as he passed briskly.  
  
"Chancellor." The count replied, tones indifferent.  
  
Just as they crossed paths, Knox fumbled slightly and lost his parasol in a sudden gale.  
  
Wiggins caught it instantly, and as though trained to dance with a cane, twirled it around his arm and wrist before tossing it back casually. "Hold it like this-" He quickly showed Jiminy, "And always be mindful of the wind's direction - it's Northeast today. Therefore, hold the open curve away like this. and always stay on his right. You're sea legs will develop, no worries."  
  
"Knox." Fawkes called emotionlessly, waiting further up.  
  
"Apologies, sir." Jiminy nodded a thank-you and hurried to catch up.  
  
Wexford-Smyth snorted, "Man's a chancellor and he doesn't have a proper servant."  
  
Wiggins returned to fanning, "If it's not too bold, your excellency, I'd like to say." Hesitation. "I was even worse MY first time. You're fortunate I didn't serve you then."  
  
The noble smiled, "You're far too generous, Wiggins. I'm fortunate, alright, fortunate to have you. You're a wonderful attendant. I've never had better. Wouldn't part with you for a king's ransom."  
  
Touched to the marrow, "Thank you, sir. Thank you very much."  
  
A long silence passed between them and then, "Wiggins, my dear, another lemonade."  
  
"Of course, your grace." Wiggins gave a quick, efficient bow as he turned to-  
  
"Ah, ah, ah, lad - I don't be thinking so." Ben took the glass for the young man. "That's quite enough water for one day, says I."  
  
Instantly sitting up and alert, Smyth - "I beg your pardon, sir?"  
  
Uh oh. Wiggins did his best to keep his expression impartial.  
  
"Lad?" Ben insisted on dragging him into their quarrel all the same. "How many swigs of water have you had today?"  
  
Oh no. Don't make me.  
  
"Lad?" Ben's tone toughened.  
  
"None, sir." his eyes instantly dropped.  
  
"Nor have I. Wexford-Smyth, on the other hand, has had all our shares for a full week in one blasted morning!" The Count stood, highly offended, but before he could speak Ben resumed, "You're dead weight, Count! It's time you started contributing to this crew!"  
  
"I'll contribute for him!" Wiggins stepped between the pair, desperate.  
  
Fawkes, suddenly present, was smirking. "That sounds like an excellent idea, gentleman. Wiggins can join the crew. My trusted Knox is more than capable of serving two masters."  
  
Uh oh. Wiggins didn't like this at all. He was meant to serve! He didn't know the first thing about sailing, nor was he capable of massive physical labor! He wanted to serve! He felt his bad mood returning full force.  
  
"No one can serve two masters! Don't you know your scripture, Charles." Wexford-Smyth was provoked. "Furthermore, I've seen how CAPABLE your Knox is. INcapable. If anything, my Wiggins will serve us both and your Knox will join the crew."  
  
Ben lost his temper, "No attendant could serve two men if one was a helpless, dependent, spoiled brat like you, Count Wexford Smyth!"  
  
The Count gasped loudly, extremely offended.  
  
"What's this? What the hell's going on?" Captain Smith entered the vicious little circle.  
  
"Too many useless mouths aboard, Captain!" Ben motioned to all four men. "Something's to be done."  
  
"Ben." John frowned, frustrated. "There's enough conflict aboard this nightmare without you stirring up MORE. I'll decide if there's something to be done or not. Return to your post and I order you not to speak to Count Wexford-Smyth until we reach Jamestown, understand?"  
  
"But-" Ben started to protest.  
  
"Understand?"  
  
"Aye, Captain." A bitter sailor walked away, almost sulking.  
  
"I apologize for the disturbance, Captain Smith." Charles stepped in instantly. "I also apologize for not contributing. I realize I'm suppose to be governing this mission. It took me a few days to accustom to sea travel." He glanced at Knox, whom he'd prepared this excuse with.  
  
Wiggins instantly noticed this. Knox wasn't the only observant servant - it came with their position.  
  
Wexford-Smyth suddenly spoke, "Jamestown, Captain? We're stopping at Jamestown?"  
  
"Absolutely, Count. It's the only place to re-supply between England and South America. You don't expect us to dock at Florida expecting favors from the Spaniards."  
  
"Yes, and just imagine the effect Ponce de Leon's colony would have on that poor dupe Ratcliffe. For a time he thought he WAS Ponce de Leon. Ponce, Raleigh, Marcellus, Columbus - all of them." Lon smirked.  
  
"That's exactly why I'm hesitant to let him land in Jamestown. It will provoke his madness more than anything else! John Ratcliffe founded Jamestown, not Christopher Columbus. Not Ponce de Leon. He'll have the largest fit of his LIFE, Smith, you know that."  
  
"I wasn't planning to let him off, Count. and I should hope no one will even mention it to him. Distract him with kittens and painting and whatever else you can - John Ratcliffe cannot see Jamestown."  
  
Hesitation and then the Captain added, "We're not staying very long at all. Just as long as it takes to re-supply." He personally didn't plan to leave the ship.  
  
Wiggins sighed silently, pouring the Count's next lemonade. "Knox." Charles was blunt. "Inform Fuller."  
  
"Inform Fuller of what?" James Fuller stood before them. "Has anyone seen Ratcliffe's kitten?"  
  
A collective moan. Not again.  
  
"Anyway, Fuller, don't tell Ratcliffe we're re-supplying in Jamestown."  
  
"OH." Jim understood. "Right."  
  
"Exactly."  
  
"Won't say a word." Fuller took the lemonade from Wiggins, taking an enormous sip. Wexford-Smyth scowled, but said nothing.  
  
Smith turned to the Chancellor, "Ratcliffe's been quite the handful this past week. He hasn't revealed any useful information either. Nothing as to the fountains location, anyway."  
  
"He won't shut up about Dorian Gray." Fuller snorted, sipping.  
  
"Whoever the hell that is." The Count muttered, annoyed.  
  
Another collective murmur of agreement, save Charles Fawkes. He looked from face to face, surprised and confused:  
  
"You don't know Dorian Gray?"  
  
***  
  
A/N: I apologize for all the spelling mistakes! When this whole thing's done I'm going to edit it and fix it up mega. Fix all the problems - not just spelling. Thanks for understanding! (Expect next chapter to be intense! WOW!) 


	14. Hats, Dreams and Flashbacks at Sea

**_WHERE PONCE DE LEON FAILED_**

**_Chapter 14: Hats, Dreams and Flashbacks at Sea_**

---

**Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Disney characters or historical figures. I do own some characters though. For example, Wexford-Smyth, James Fuller, Charles Fawkes, Jiminy Knox, Ally Ellington, Fredrico Martinez, etc. So ya, I created a lot of people. I always do.**

**A/N:**

**UGH. My author's notes are embarassing. I apologize for them. **

**Anyway, Walter Raleigh in this work is combination of the real Walter Raleigh and John White (artist and Governor of Roanoke colony). I consistently mess up Ellington's name. Sometimes I write Ellingham, sometimes Allingham. This story is full of mistakes. Sorry!**

**This historical inaccuracies are really bothering me. The legal system and the political system are all wrong, for starters. There's A LOT stuff wrong. BLAH. **

**OH! Sorry if my French is sloppy. I tried, but it's not my first language.**

---

Ellington didn't see a black hour glass flag or a jolly roger, but something told him this vessel meant them harm. It didn't look English. It was probably a privateer. As it closed in aggressively, there was no doubt anymore. It was time to fight or try and flee.

They tried to flee, then they tried to fight… but they failed.

On his knees, a sword point to the back of his neck, the Captain tried to keep a blank look across his face.

"Lovely 'at." The French captain said with a very thick accent.

With that, he snatched Ellington's enormous and flamboyant hat from his head. It was an ornate, bright tri-corn with a huge, fluffy plume.

Ellington didn't answer. He stayed frozen, eyes dead ahead and empty.

So far the French privateers were disappointed. There was nothing of great value onboard. But they would take anything that wasn't bolted down. Coins, food, water, weapons, gun powder, candles, textiles, whatever. They'd take anything they could!

A mariner approached the leader, handing him some important papers and maps from Ellington's desk.

"_Lisez-vous l'anglais?" _He asked bluntly. [Do you read English?]

"_Décemment. J'ai travaillé pour l'anglais avant. Ils ont eu besoin de Normands pour leur enseigner la navigation." _He smirked at this last comment. [Decently. I worked for the English before. They needed Normans to teach them navigation.]

Ellington and his men were on their knees staring straight ahead in silence. They had no idea what the Frenchmen were saying.

In the corner of his eye, Ellington was nervously watching the leader eye his maps and his notes about the fountain of youth and the lost treasure city. He hoped against hope that the man didn't figure things out. That he didn't understand what he'd stumbled upon. OH…

The Frenchman's eyes widened.

"_Mon Dieu!"_ He turned to his men. _"__Nous devons montrer ces documents à seigneur Roberval!" _[My God! We must show these papers to Lord Roberval!]

Ellington heard ROBERVAL and his heart skipped a beat. UH OH.

From the excited words springing out of the Frenchman's mouth, the Captain could just TELL this wasn't good. Not at all. They had figured things out. Or they were very close to figuring this out. Roberval was notorious for many things. He was an explorer, a colonizer, a military commander, a Protestant, a PIRATE… and… well, he spoke English fluently with great eloquence…

He would definitely be able to read the documents.

Ellington cursed himself inwardly. Ever since Ratcliffe had been arrested and removed from the picture, things had been perfect. Absolutely perfect.

Ally had confiscated all the treasure, all the documents… He'd made himself rich and important overnight with the gold and jewels from the treasure city… And he'd been heading back for more… more treasure and more water…

Now things were about to get extremely MESSY.

---

_Back at the manor… a few months earlier… _

_Clothes were flying everywhere. Wexford-Smyth's wardrobe was amazing. The man wasted A LOT of money on fashion. Wow. No wonder he was in debt. This was crazy._

_A determined Governor was rummaging through his stuff looking for something halfway decent to wear._

_Unfortunate, everything William owned didn't fit. It was way too small. Ratcliffe, even when fifty percent fountain, was still a big, heavy guy. He couldn't even get into the pretty boy's clothes. Not a chance._

_But the hats were another matter altogether. The hats fit perfectly. And they looked awesome. _

_He kept trying them on, hat after hat after hat… _

_He smiled at himself in the mirror and pulled one down handsomely. That's right. Handsomely. _

_Whatever DEMONS the fountain had put inside him, it had done one remarkable thing – he looked GOOD. _

_And then Wexford-Smyth walked in and cried out in alarm. _

"_Unhand my things!" The young count demanded haughtily. _

"_A-HA!" The Governor unexpectedly drew a sword and came at him like a Musketeer swinging wildly. _

_The Count screamed and started dodging and jumping all over the place in alarm. _

_Meanwhile, in the hallway Wiggins was leading John Smith to see the Count…_

_As they rounded the bend they heard SCREAMING…_

_And then they saw the Count quickly slamming a door behind him and propping a chair under the doorknob. He was disheveled and looked very alarmed. _

_He recoiled as the door was banged violently. It was going to break._

_Turning and seeing Smith, he panted, "Ah. Smith. Just… some… personal… um, problems… Be with you in a moment…"_

---

"Out with it, Fawkes." Wexford-Smyth demanded, smacking his fan. "Who is Dorian Gray? Fuller's been trying to figure it out for DAYS."

"A young English aristocrat who ran away to the Portuguese court over a decade ago. Horrible rascal who knew no shame. He left England a disgraced gambler, womanizer – his debts were outrageously out of control. But stunningly handsome. The most attractive young man any of us had ever seen."

"UM…" Wexford-Smyth rose a skeptical eyebrow. First and foremost, he considered himself very handsome. And secondly, he'd NEVER in all his years heard of this individual. "I pride myself on being in the loop, Charles. I would have heard of this boy."

"You likely knew him as Peter Sanderson." Fawkes shrugged.

The count frowned. "Hm… I'm familiar with the Sanderson lot. Their estate is in the south… Hmm… I seem to remember one of their boys running away a long time ago, yes – but I thought he went to Germany… Hmm…"

Smith impatiently cut in. "What happened to this guy? And where does the name Dorian Gray fit in?"

"Well, after he went to Portuguese court he reinvented himself as the handsome, infamous Dorian Gray. He apparently came to no good. We heard all sorts of tales about how he got mixed up in the organized crime under all sorts of aliases."

"What? I never heard such thrilling tales!" The count sat up straight.

Fawkes ignored this. "He had lots of false names. Not just Dorian Gray. Hmm… Always really catchy stuff to sort of capture how he thought of himself. Names like Vic Valentine."

Wiggins froze. "Vic Valentine?"

"He was our pilot!" Lon blurted out from behind them.

"I beg your pardon?" Fawkes raised his nose. He was unaccustomed to common folk speaking out of turn. Especially speaking to HIM. It was bad enough these people yelled at the Count like he was an equal. They weren't going to start treating HIM like that.

"Your pilot? WHEN?" Smith was very surprised.

"On the South America expedition with Ratcliffe." Lon's eyes were wide.

"So the pieces of the puzzle come together…" James Fuller's eyes narrowed. "Now I understand why the Governor is on about Dorian Gray all the time. He actually knew the man. They worked together."

"Dorian Gray as a pilot? On an expedition to parts unknown?" Fawkes said incredulously. "That's ludicrous."

William Wexford-Smyth hated that tone. Raising an eyebrow again, he said calmly and coolly, "Some of us leap at the chance for adventure, thank you. Moreover, you have no idea what happened to this Dorian fellow. If things DID go poorly for him in Portuguese crime perhaps he turned to the South America venture out of desperation. It promised great riches."

"No more difficult to believe than a fountain of youth." Smith muttered.

Lon was getting excited. "And Valentine said he'd lived in Portugal for 15 years. Said he learned navigation there. He even had a Portuguese accent. Spoke the language fluently."

"The Portuguese have a reputation for navigation." Smith sighed.

"And Ratcliffe has been on about the Portuguese lately." Fuller looked very pensive. "He keeps thinking we're speaking Portuguese to him."

"It could easily be another Valentine." Fawkes was still skeptical.

"Valentine isn't even a Portuguese name, is it? What are the odds of all these factors coming together – including Ratcliffe knowing Dorian Gray – and it NOT being him? HM?" Wexford-Smyth looked amused.

"Well, what happened to him?" The High Chancellor turned to Wiggins and Lon grumpily. He was on the losing end of this argument and he didn't like it. He hated playing the fool for the flakey count and a bunch of peasants.

Neither man answered.

"WELL?" Captain Smith prompted.

"He died badly." Lon frowned uncomfortable. "VERY badly."

"How so?" Fawkes asked carefully. "Speak truthfully. I promise you shall not be prosecuted."

Lon looked at Wiggins. The servant looked pale and sickly.

"Come now. Out with it." Wexford-Smyth insisted eagerly. He loved a good story and this one promised to be very, very good.

"We buried him alive." Lon said quietly.

"EXCUSE ME?" Fawkes was taken aback.

Wexford-Smyth was excited – "They buried him alive!"

"I heard, damn it." The Chancellor snapped. "What the HELL went on?"

And Wiggins had a sudden outburst. "It was absolutely terrible. This Valentine fellow was troublesome from the get go. But once we got into the jungle and found the fountain… well…

Wiggins trailed off and looked sick.

"He went bonkers." Lon finished, shaking his head. "Bloody bonkers."

"His conduct was deplorable to begin with." Wiggins sniffled sadly. "He was a hoodlum, for certain. But once the fountain and treasure and eternal youth were suddenly this overwhelming reality… well… We were ALL overwhelmed really. But he lost his head entirely."

"WIGGINS…" Lon sighed loudly. "He went INSANE. Dangerously so. Out of control. He was totally nonsensical and his words, his actions – it was all erratic."

"Erratic." Wiggins repeated quietly.

"I thought he was sick with jungle fever or something." Lon admitted. "He seemed kind of feverish and delirious at one point. Anyway, he turned violent and dangerous."

"He wanted the fountain all for himself." Wiggins interjected. "He grew progressively more violent and dangerous…"

"And nobody wanted to shoot him or anything, right?" Lon frowned. "So… well…"

"YOU BURIED HIM ALIVE?" Fawkes was in utter disbelief.

"LON." Smith added, face very wide with shock and horror.

"It just happened. I can't explain it or justify it, alright? It was CRAZY. The whole thing was crazy."

"It was like he was possessed by a demon." Wiggins was tearful suddenly.

"YA. And we thought if we locked him up for a while he'd calm down and get a hold of himself."

And there was a long pause here. Neither Lon or Wiggins spoke.

"But he never did 'get a hold of himself'… did he?" Fawkes frowned. "And nobody wanted to kill him… so you just left him imprisoned... raving like a violent lunactic… until he suffocated or died of dehydration."

Again, Lon and Wiggins didn't speak.

But Wiggins had started to cry audibly now. You could hear him breaking.

"We waited for HOURS." Lon suddenly said defensively. "He was clearly possessed by the Devil or something! There was NO HOPE for him, Chancellor. And those dangerous freaking things might be coming after us again. We risked all of our lives to wait there and see if he got it together. We eventually we had to move on. We thought we heard them."

"Heard what?" Smith demanded.

"The creatures." Lon muttered.

Wiggins really started to cry now.

"Creatures…" Smith looked at him in disbelief. "Start making sense."

"Remember when we were debating the curse, John…" Lon frowned.

"Shut up, shut up, shut up." Wiggins covered his eyes, upset.

"Well, there pretty much IS a curse." Lon finished.

"OH MY GOD…" Wexford-Smyth marveled at the drama and adventure. "This is an AMAZING story. Creatures… curses… demon possession… burying shipmates alive… MY GOD!" He looked gleeful. Like that first time he laid eyes on the mad Governor.

"Curse? Creatures?" Fawkes was once again incredulous. "Explain yourselves."

"There's no curse!" Wiggins snapped. "I… I just don't understand any of it…"

"Any of WHAT?" Smith snapped. "Make sense!"

"I can't explain it." Lon sighed. "I don't fully understand it. When we discovered the fountain… well… we sprang some traps or something. Terrifying things happened. And finally these monsters came after us. They were like no animal we'd ever seen before."

"Well, there's new animals discovered every day. It's a NEW WORLD, after all." Wexford-Smyth prompted him on. "What did they look like?"

"Like enormous, dark gray hyena beasts." Wiggins sniffled wetly.

"What's a hyena?" Fawkes was confused.

"TSK, TSK…" The Count looked impatient. "Someone needs to catch up on their adventure tales. They're African beasts, Fawkes. Exotic wolf monsters from Africa. Even my SERVANT knows that."

Fawkes' turned red, but said nothing.

"I thought they were more like wild boars or something." Lon scratched his head. "Not that any of us got a good look at them. They were DEADLY, though. They came at our ferociously at great speed."

"Exotic beasts don't indicate a curse." Fawkes sounded angry.

"There's a lot more than THAT to it." Lon said quietly, looking down.

"How did you escape these beasts?" Smith frowned.

"Not all of us did." Lon admitted carefully. "THAT'S how WE escaped."

"OH." Smith understood immediately.

Wiggins, wiping his eyes with his hankie, sniffled – "We got all separated. They followed some groups and not others. And several people were eaten for sure."

"And then Dorian Gray went crazy and violent and you left him behind…" Fawkes finished gravely.

"You said there'd be no trouble…" Lon reminded him uneasily.

Fawkes looked tired and unhappy. And then he just abruptly walked away.

James Fuller cleared his throat. "Well this has been MOST informative, gentleman. Thank you."

Smith turned to him, "See what you can get out of Governor about Dorian Gray. Carefully remind him of some of this weird jungle stuff. I have a gut feeling there's crucial information here."

Wexford-Smyth grinned, "Adventure! I absolutely LOVE this!"

Thomas snorted. "You won't love it when some creature chomps you."

The count turned to the miserable, wretched Wiggins. "Why didn't you TELL me you'd had such adventure, my boy? You know how much I love hearing such things! I'm practically obsessed!"

Wiggins looked out over the water, "I was like that once, sir. I wanted to have SCORES of adventures… It's an entirely different matter when you're actually living one. I haven't the stomach for it."

---

_The boys were fencing in the yard, jumping up on walls and crying out and exerting themselves immensely…_

_Wexford-Smyth, conversely, couldn't be bothered. He lay nonchalantly in a chair nearby, as dignified and debonair as ever. He was casually reading and book and sipping tea. It was warm and sunny out and the breeze fluttered his fashionable hair cut._

_And then the shrieking started… absolute shrieking…_

_No one reacted. The boys continued to fence and the Count continued to read. He didn't even blink. _

_The shrieking intensified and some glass was shattered…_

_But the count just flipped the page and took another sip…_

_And then there was an enormous crash and something flew through the second story window behind them._

_Finally, the Count lowered his book and sighed very loudly. "If I were ACTUALLY reading this would be insufferable." _

_And then he went back to trying to read a book that was far too difficult for him but very fashionable at this time._

_Wiggins stopped clipping the hedges and stared ahead blankly. _

_In that moment he realized he missed the Governor tremendously. The man was wicked in some ways… but in other ways he was… well… _

_He was a very good fit for a fellow like Wiggins. The perfect fit, really. Opposites in so many ways, they created a sense of balance. And they were alike in some of the ways that were crucial. _

_The Governor gave him great freedom and flexibility in his work. He basically had the run of things. He had control. He could shape animals in the bushes, for goodness sakes._

_The count externally appeared to be a better fit… but… when push came to shove he really wasn't. They were far too much alike. _

_And he was no Ratcliffe. _

_Unlike the flakey count, the Governor was smart and strategic. The man had been so decisive. Strong in will and character. Over the years of service, Wiggins had come to admire the man. Whatever his failings. _

_Wexford-Smyth noticed Wiggins just standing there, staring off into space. _

"_I say, chap… quite alright?" He looked concerned. _

_Wiggins shook his head and jumped back into the moment. Back into his work. "Oh yes, sir. Quite alright, thank you."_

_The count wasn't fully convinced. "I dunno… you looked so far away… and sort of SAD, really…"_

---

It was the cold, dark dead of night. A wooden door slammed open and Smith was suddenly on deck… unable to sleep…

He looked out over the freezing cold water. He could see his breath in the air. He wasn't dressed warmly enough to be out like this.

A voice came up behind him, "Imagine if someone else gets there first…"

Smith cleared his throat, looking out over the water. He didn't think ANYONE should get it, frankly. Whoever got it – no good would come of it. There would be war like there had never, ever been before. And he didn't welcome it one bit.

"Why didn't you tell me about the creatures?" John demanded suddenly.

Lon looked shamefaced. "Sorry John. I'm really confused about it all. It's messed up. Hearing about Vic Valentine really took me back, though. I'm starting to REMEMBER things. To understand them more."

"If you remember anything else like that, you'd better damn well tell me." Smith said gruffly. He was sick of this crap.

"Sure, John." Lon lied. He remembered a lot more. And he always had.

There was a long, heavy silence between them…

"Why aren't you in bed?" Lon finally spoke.

Smith scrunched his face in a way that was very communicative. He was feeling funny, clearly. And then he settled on an answer, "Can't sleep. Had a really weird dream."

Lon blinked. John wasn't the type of guy to discuss dreams.

John turned around and caught his friend's expression. So he clarified, "Every since I met Pocahontas I've thought of dreams differently. Her people take them very seriously. She told me about her dreams. Said they predicted we'd meet. That they showed helped show her path."

Lon scratched his head. "My mum used to say dreams were God talking to us. Maybe that's what the Princess means."

John didn't answer again. He was replaying his dream.

"Well… this dream's clearly bothering you…" Lon prompted. Almost impatiently. UGH. Discussing feeling? What was WITH them these days? Jamestown really had altered their lives. Oy.

John bit. "Ok. But don't laugh."

And then after some awkward hesitation he blurted out quickly: "I dreamed Ratcliffe and I were saving the Queen of Spain from pirates."

Lon laughed out loud.

"You promised!" John scowled. Yet he didn't feel betrayed. He'd expected as much.

"Working together? You two?" Lon smirked, eyes bright. "That'll be the day."

"Don't say that!" John flinched unexpectedly. "You'll tempt fate. It's like foreshadowing…"

"What's that?" Lon stopped smirking.

"Nevermind." John was dismissive. He wasn't entirely sure himself actually.

After a second, the captain added, "Besides, it's not like we were buddies or anything. We both were clearly just setting aside our differences to get a job done. To save the Queen."

"It wasn't even OUR Queen." Lon laughed.

"It was a DREAM." John raised his arms in frustration.

"Well, did you save her?"

"I don't know. I woke up in the middle. You know how it is. But it seemed like we were going to. We were doing a bang up job, really. He seemed to really care about saving the Queen. And he was fighting valiantly…"

John was picturing the dream. He couldn't see himself. The Governor was in white and dark blue with some dark brown. The hat had a very nice plume… For once the guy looked halfway decent. Not repulsive.

John felt very awkward suddenly. You're supposed to hate your enemies and find them repulsive. You're not supposed to start admiring them. It was like that journal all over again.

Sure enough, Lon had come to the exact same conclusion. "UGH. That's just awkward, Smith. In fact – reminds me of you reading his South America journal and being all star struck…"

"SHUT UP." John snapped.

"There you go again. All defensive." Lon stepped back warily.

"I wasn't star stuck. I just… I thought it was someone else… and…"

"That made you objective." Lon challenged bluntly.

"You're being a real ass." John turned to go back below deck.

"Oh, come on, John. You're so ANGRY all the time. What is it?"

John stopped in the doorway. "You're right. I'm just on edge all the time. I'm about to see Pocahontas… and she's with Rolfe now… And I'm on the same ship as Ratcliffe who tried to murder me twice now. And there's this whole outrageous fountain of youth drama unfolding. I'm just…"

Lon rose his hand. "Say no more. Get some sleep."

John went back to bed feeling as grumpy as ever.

When he didn't want to talk, idiots made him talk. And then we he actually tried to talk things out they told him to shut up and go to bed. He was sick of this. Damn it.

---

The ship rocked endlessly… BLAH…

Wiggins was folding sheets. Back during happier times he'd have been humming merrily. Bouncing around with a spring in his step that communicated a love of life. And the Governor, despite his serious, cool demeanor, would have been fine with this. There was an unspoken understanding there…

Why didn't he feel like humming? Wexford-Smyth hummed quite a bit. The man was extremely merry. Downright happy and cheerful.

When Wiggins had initially started this position, he'd loved having such a pleasant and carefree master. Someone flakey and fun. A man after his own heart, frankly.

But as the months had rolled on… well…

The count was quirky. And unpredictable.

You never knew when he was going to go all manic and buzz around the estate at top speed, overly active and overly enthusiastic about something and trying to do too many things at once. Some new project he wanted to do. Or some new crackpot invention he'd dreamt up. Or some new trend that needed to be implemented all over the estate immediately.

Or he'd take up some hobby and be ridiculously extreme about it. Like the time he wanted to becoming a painter. Or the time he'd become obsessed with model ships and had them all over the house. They'd been everywhere for weeks. Wiggins had stepped on them, sat on them, almost accidentally eaten pieces of one. Crunch, crunch, crunch went the little ships regularly. The count only stopped the madness when he tripped on one and fell headfirst down the stairs!

You never knew when the count was going to start up some passionate crusade and go overkill on a topic. He'd be very vocal and adamant. He'd ostentatiously to try to make a point. And he'd drive everyone insane with his random, unexpected cause until he finally lost interest in it. (Wiggins had actually deliberately derailed him from some of his more annoying crusades on purpose with fashionable distractions, etc.)

Or Wexford-Smyth might become overly concerned about some random, unlikely threat. He'd think an epidemic was coming and start sanitizing the hell out of everything. Or he'd think some nationality was about to randomly invade and they all had to prepare. Or he'd hear about some accident or rare medical condition and just naturally assume it could happen to him at any moment. And then start to take preventive measures that were totally excessive.

Though he was often overly social, there were unexpected times when he was a total introvert. He'd be lazy and indifferent and shirk his responsibilities. He'd neglect payments or obligations. He'd lie around the house and do absolutely nothing. These bizarre, unexplained funks were the only peace and quiet Wiggins really got, actually…

The man could be cool, composed and nonchalant. Or he could be crazed and overkill enthusiastic. Or he could fall into a funk and be useless.

But Wexford-Smyth was never malicious. Never cruel or unkind. He lost his temper from time to time, truthfully. Especially now that he was living with a lunatic in his home night and day. But for the most part, he was a good person. He had a good heart and he always meant well. As eccentric as he was.

Yes. Eccentric. That was the perfect word for the count.

HMPH… Using the title "count" in England at all… He was an Earl. They said EARL in England. COUNT was what you said on the continent. It was so bizarre. But he was popular and somehow related to the King so he got away with foolishness every day of the damn week.

The count was a happy, friendly chap. Handsome, likeable, amusing – OK, well, amusing for the wrong reasons, actually…

_Why am I unhappy? _

Was he actually unhappy? It was getting harder and harder to deny. He wasn't skipping or singing or anything anymore. He just did his job. He didn't love his job – he just DID it.

He wasn't very smart. Or strong of character. He lacked that dignified, commanding presence. He lacked a sense of order, discipline. He was nothing like the Governor at all.

ACK. Wiggins couldn't take it anymore.

He left the Count's cabin and scurried down the hall to check on Ratcliffe. That surgeon was absolutely useless when it came to taking care of others. He only thought of himself. And he considered his charge a burden.

Ratcliffe and Fuller were sitting on the floor of the cabin. They were playing cards. It was unclear what game, specifically, but he knew playing cards when he saw them. The other servants tended to gamble, after all.

Fuller ignored the attendant's entrance. He was used to Wiggins buzzing around all obsessive compulsive.

Absently, Ratcliffe drank out of the cat dish.

"EH." Jim slapped his hand.

"He's thirsty!" Wiggins snapped unexpectedly and uncharacteristically. "You constantly forget to give him water!"

It was true. But Fuller wouldn't give the boy the satisfaction.

Wiggins poured a little water for the Governor. They were on strict rations now – even Count Wexford-Smyth – until they made it to Jamestown. The water needed to last until they resupplied there. The natives were friendly. They'd allow them to take on food and water.

The attendant handed the thirsty governor a little drink.

Wiggins turned to James and pleaded. "Just PLEASE remember the water. That's all I ask. PLEASE." His eyes were actually pleading. He really cared.

---

Fuller and Ratcliffe sat on the cabin floor playing chess…

The Governor was wearing a large, flashy plumed hat.

And then he took Jim's rook.

"DAMN." Fuller blinked. "You're getting good."

"I used to play with the king." Ratcliffe smirked, tipping his hat.

Wexford-Smyth walked into the open doorway – "FULLER…"

And then he saw the hat.

The count relaxed. "Oh good. Just the lunatic. I was worried I'd been robbed."

Sure enough, the room was FULL of hats…

---

The Governor sat up unexpectedly in bed. It was deep in the night, but he sensed something was wrong. He was all alone. He needed to get upstairs and figure out what was going on.

He hurried up the steps and out onto the deck.

The men were bustling around. It was suddenly mid-day.

WHAT? … It had just been night. He'd been in his bed clothes.

And then he realized he wasn't in his pajamas anymore. He was wearing clothes he'd never even seen before.

"You there." He grabbed a young mariner who was running by. "Where's Smith? Or Fawkes? I need to see someone at once."

The young man starred at him blankly in total confusion.

"Do you not speak English?" Ratcliffe shook him rudely. "Obey."

"Ing-lish?" The man frowned. And he looked to his mates in confusion. They were all approaching now, concerned. English?

The Governor immediately looked at his hands.

Sure enough, they weren't his.

NOT AGAIN. Another bizarre hallucination. Why couldn't he be normal?

"GREAT." He said aloud. What language did these sailors speak?

And then he heard one whisper to another nervously before him. It was either Portuguese or Spanish. Spanish he could actually manage. Hopefully. He was in a daze these days.

And then he unexpectedly smelt it. That amazing forest smell that hit him a few hours before they saw Virginia. He absolutely loved that smell.

He rushed to the edge of the ship and the smell got much stronger. Sure enough, there was a large floating branch in the water. There were even some leaves still on it.

He smiled a very real smile when he saw this.

Land was coming. And very soon. He could smell it.

"Kittens don't belong at sea, Jack." A familiar voice surprised him from behind.

He whirled around. A handsome young man was standing behind him. He had a dark complexion. He'd appeared out of nowhere. And there was something alarming and unnatural about him. Like he was a GHOST or something. He'd just appeared there. And he didn't look right. Something was extremely wrong right now…

"Who are you?" He demanded.

The young man smirked. And then in an instant he was closer. He hadn't come closer. He'd APPEARED closer. This was getting scary.

And then he knew – this was Dorian Gray.

"I'm not angry with you, Jack. Or anyone." The young man said simply, casually. "I've let it all go. All's well now."

"Well, you're with God now." Ratcliffe said calmly. He didn't believe in ghosts. He played it confident, collected.

Dorian laughed. A cree[py, unnatural laugh.

"With God? WITH God? … Jack, I AM a God."

And his eyes turned solid black and he disappeared in a surge of power.

His voice came on the breeze – "See you in South America."

Jack looked down and saw the branch in the water was now… BONES…

---

Ratcliffe practically leapt out of bed. He clutched himself like there were snakes biting at him. Or spiders all over his body. He felt violated.

"Problem?" James Fuller, in the next bed, said tiredly. Barely reacting.

"The dreams are getting worse. MUCH worse. One of these nights Dorian is going to drag me out of bed. Or strangle me or something."

"Watch it, John." Fuller was tired. "Sounds like you're talking about demon possession or something… Not the sort of thing-"

"Of course I'm talking about demon possession, you idiot! Would you just LISTEN. He's got his claws into me! This madness isn't ME. Something's got me."

"Good night, John." Jim rolled over indifferently.

The Governor just stood there, staring at him in shock. "You're supposed to be supportive and helpful. A demon's tearing me apart piece by piece and you just go back to BED? What's wrong with you?"

"Right, right…" Fuller sat up tiredly. "If it makes you feel any better, John, I've been having nightmares myself. Strange ones about the jungles of South America."

"Really?" Ratcliffe's eyes perked. "Explain."

"Well, I don't really SEE images all too often. It's more a FEELING. Like… I dunno. I feel like there's something deep in the depths of the darkness. Something evil that's just biding its time, growing in strength."

"Are you serious?" Ratcliffe's eyes widened. "And it's in the jungle?"

"I guess so." Fuller yawned. "Relax, John. It's just a DREAM. You get so worked up over the stupidest things. You've blurred the line between fiction and reality. You thought you were Verrazzano this afternoon, did you realize that?"

"No. I don't remember that." The Governor rolled his eyes. "My mind isn't my own 95 percent of the time. In case nobody's noticed! Something's got me. Like it got Dorian Gray. He acted all crazed and possessed too."

Fuller groaned. "Can we talk about this tomorrow? I've already heard about you burying someone alive. I'm tired."

"I keep trying to use the hallucinations to my advantage to save myself. But every single time I really start to get somewhere, the house of cards comes crashing down and I have to start all over. I don't know how many more 'strong versions of myself' I can create! This thing's REALLY getting its claws into me!"

"Mmm-hmmm." Fuller's eyes were closed. He wasn't listening.

Ratcliffe kicked him. "Listen, you idiot! If you want my fountain secrets you're behave rather STUPIDLY!"

"ACK…" Fuller curled up in pain. "WHAT?"

Ratcliffe sighed and rubbed his face. "It calls me Jack."

"Who?" Fuller grumbled in pain.

"I don't know what it is. But I'm not called that much anymore."

It was true. His was family was gone. His friend's were mostly dead. It was a name he associated with his youth and years of military service. His mother hadn't called him Johnny. Only Raleigh had gotten away with that crap. He was the sort. He was reminiscent of Wexford-Smyth in some ways, actually.

"You're very clear tonight. Very coherent." Jim Fuller suddenly used his brain. He started waking up and actually realizing the opportunity for what it was.

"And I'm sending distress signals. HELLO."

"Want to tell me where the fountain is?"

"ERRR… You couldn't save me anyway. You're useless."

The Governor then banged on the wall loudly. "WIGGINS."

"While you're having a moment of clarity here, Jack, you should really share the big secret. I mean, you might not get another chance. What with the demon's claws and all. Just tell me, please. The fate of the world is depending on you-"

"Shut up." The Governor interrupted rudely.

"You REALLY should tell me. We don't want the fountain lost forever. Or the Spanish finding it. Right?"

Ratcliffe knew that Ellington had all the maps, the coordinates, the sketches, navigational notes he'd made – everything. But there was no way he could tell anyone else that. His life depended on others believing he was their key to finding the fountain of youth. The second he revealed he was as hazy as Wiggins and Lon… well…

He grew even more impatient. BANG! BANG! "Wiggins!"

"Sir?" Wiggins burst into the room panting. Wexford-Smyth was right behind him. They were both in their pajamas.

But the Governor didn't answer at first. He looked confused.

"SIR?" Wiggins repeated. "You called me?"

The Governor frowned. "Yes. And now I don't remember why."

"Oh… Alright…" Wiggins looked very, very tired. Too tired to be dragged out of bed for absolutely no reason at this hour.

"There was something ridiculously important and now I just don't remember." The Governor sat down on his bed. "I guess I'll just go back to bed… Sorry to wake you."

"OH – you've GOT to be KIDDING me…" Fuller was horrified.

"What? What did I miss?" The count demanded.

"Perhaps you had a nightmare." Wiggins frowned.

"Yes. Another Portuguese one, I think." He was back in bed now.

"A Portuguese nightmare? You woke us over a Portuguese Nightmare?" Wexford-Smyth looked so frazzled. "I don't know how much more I can take of this. I thought hitting the high seas would save me from this. Evidently not!"

"You've got to be KIDDING me." Fuller covered his face. "I missed it! I was half asleep and I actually MISSED it!"

Smith was in the doorway – "Damn it, Fuller. Can't you keep him quiet in the night!?"

"He was back." Jim blurted out. "He was BACK."

"He's been back a few times." Wiggins looked tired suddenly. "You know he has moments of clarity."

"NO, no." Fuller was animated. "He was FULL BLOWN back, Wiggins. Totally aware of the madness as if it was separate entity or something. He said he's possessed like Dorian Gray was. He didn't want to return back into this lunatic state, but unfortunate… here we are…"

"Did you press him about the fountain?" Smith was hopeful.

"He just said SHUT UP and called me useless."

Wiggins suddenly went into an awkward coughing fit. The sort that poorly conceals laughter. Everyone stared at him.

And then Wexford-Smyth threw back his head and laughed loudly at THIS.

Fuller was not amused.

---

_The grandfather clock by the main stair case chimed four times. It was four in the morning and Wexford-Smyth and Wiggins were sitting at the breakfast table together. They had been up ALL NIGHT. They looked like they were on death's door._

"_How long do you think we can go on like this?" The count asked._

_Wexford-Smyth looked exhausted and unwell. Dark rings had formed under the handsome young man's eyes._

_There was loud banging and screaming upstairs… They couldn't sleep when he carried on like this in the night…_

"_It's like he's possessed. I want to call in a minister." The count frowned._

_Wiggins set a cup of steaming tea before the count silently._

_The count, tired and lost in thought, was startled by this. He flinched. _

_And then he looked up at Wiggins sadly. _

"_This isn't fun anymore." He said with a quiet sadness. _

---

James Fuller really needed some tea.

He turned and looked at Ratcliffe with tired, impatient indifference. He didn't know how to get secrets out of him. One minute he thought he was some dead explorer, the next some ancient legionnaire. Or he thought he was talking to ghosts from his past – people like Raleigh, for example. Whatever demons were in this guy it was sometimes downright frightening!

And yet everyone was counting on him to persuade Ratcliffe into revealing all sorts of vital information about the fountain and some treasure city. It was a lot of pressure to put on a young physician.

But he'd hungered for fame and fortune for years now. This was his big chance. If he could just get Jack or Columbus or Marco Polo – or whoever the hell was in there today – to reveal something useful…

"You look tired, Jim." Ratcliffe said bluntly.

"I'm a little sea sick." Fuller admitted. "Still finding my sea legs. We aren't all as travelled as you."

That was only part of it, really. Each night since he'd taken the bizarre position as the imaginary friend he'd been having a progressively worse sleep. Each night was worse than then the last.

The nightmares were becoming more and more vivid. Yet it was more the FEELING the dreams produced. Things you could only sense. He sensed some terrible, evil presence. Like there was something lurking deep in the depths of… something, somewhere. He couldn't place it. It was almost like it was within HIMSELF. But he really didn't like that notion at all. Yikes.

Anyway, this evil presence was pulsing with life, with energy. It had evil designs to carry out. Only… it couldn't leave the depths of the darkness… It couldn't do things on its own…

So it wanted them. It wanted them to come to it.

Was it really POSSIBLE that Ratcliffe was possessed and he – Fuller – was getting pulled into this evil by association?!

Fuller shook his head. WOAH.

"What's wrong?" Ratcliffe turned.

"OH. Um…" Fuller's face flushed instantly. How embarrassing. "Nothing. Just… I… Oh, nothing."

"It's strange, Jim." Ratcliffe looked away. "You felt different before. You knew absolutely everything. You were very strong. The epitome of everything I wanted to be. You taught me all sorts of things that I really wanted and needed to know. I was becoming you. And yet… now… You seem weak and confused and… well… You don't feel the same at all. We're out of sync. It's just not the same."

Jim wasn't sure what to say. He needed to be firm with this guy. He needed to keep control somehow. Everyone was depending on him. He didn't even want to imagine what happened when you failed the KING.

"Nonsense, Jack. Nothing's changed." He said firmly and dismissively.

Ratcliffe didn't look convinced.

---

_The imaginary James Fuller had taken ages to slowly retrain Ratcliffe. It was literally as though he were recovering from brain damage. He had to slowly relearn to dress himself and to use utensils and simple tools. But Jim was firm and supportive and little by little there was progress. Each day brought improvement. _

_Which was good – Improvement was a word the king liked to hear. Yes, he was getting impatient, but at least things were progressing steadily. Their lives depended on things progressing steadily. And on some level, Ratcliffe must have realized this, because his sick mind was tricking itself into recovering. _

_Soon his paintings were halfway decent. Jim had heard the Governor could paint, but he'd only seen bizarre finger paintings that looked like bloody messes or murky clouds. Only now was he starting to see real images. _

"_So you were friends with Governor White?" Jim asked casually one morning, looking over the man's shoulder as he painted quietly._

"_John White?" Ratcliffe stopped painting and starting thinking. He was coming along… starting to remember things… starting to converse with some level of normalcy finally…_

"_Yes. The famous painter. The one who went to Roanoke." _

_Ratcliffe narrowed his eyes in concentration, sort of glancing upward. And then he shook his head. "No. Don't remember him."_

"_You met him through Raleigh." Jim prompted carefully. The real James Fuller wouldn't know this, naturally. But this imaginary Fuller knew everything. He was slowly, but surely, bringing the Governor back. _

_Jack returned to painting for a moment… _

_And then unexpectedly, he froze. "WHITE. I remember. And I remember Laney. White and Laney and Hariot. I remember all of them."_

_Jim smiled a dark smile and stepped backwards out of sight. Letting this run its course. _

"_Governor Ralph Lane. Laney. I served with him in Ireland. And then he got mixed up in Raleigh's Virginia project. Laid the foundation for MY project. He scouted out the Chesapeake Bay area and promised me it was a good spot. Good harbour. I remember now. Yes."_

"_Your friendships with Raleigh and Lane crossed with Virginia. They planted the Virginia seed in you, hm?" _

_An hour later, when Wiggins entered, half distracted and muttering to himself about Wexford Smyth's new obsession with MARBLES. The house was now FULL of them. They were turning up absolutely everywhere. Even in the most bizarre, awkward places. And they always found their way on the bloody floor! ACK! He kept slipping and sliding around. Holy Hell, they were dangerous little buggers!_

"_OH!" The attendant jumped back in surprise._

_On the canvas was a marvelous painting of Ralph Lane. A man notorious for his war with the natives of Roanoke Island. A man notorious for his might makes right attitude. A survivor. _

_An old military buddy of Ratcliffe's. Someone the Governor had come to respect and admire. Someone he'd tried to emulate, frankly._

_Beside it was a simplistic sketch of a flowered bridge over some water…_

_Ratcliffe was sitting by the window, looking outside at the grounds below. It was sunny out and he was stroking his little kitten. He looked content. _

"_I… I…" Wiggins stepped closer to the painting of Lane. "It's Laney."_

_The Governor turned slowly from the window. "Hm? Oh. That. Jim painted that. Do you like my bridge?"_

_The bridge was crap._

"_The bridge is lovely, sir." Wiggins was too tired to sound convincing._

_JIM always painted the good works. This one was particularly good. _

_Was the Governor in there trying to communicate or what? Was he trying to break through and get some message across about Ralph Lane? Or colonization? Or what? _

_Did he need to speak to Lane? That wasn't possible. Lane had disappeared crossing the Atlantic several years ago. No one knew what happened to him._

_Hopefully the Governor didn't dream HIM up as an imaginary friend. _

_In some ways Ratcliffe was really improving. He could function and speak and act and it was good, sure. But… this Jim thing… It was just like the Raleigh hallucination all over again…_

_Why did he continue to create these crutches? It seemed to work for him. He seemed to rebuild on their shoulders somehow. His mind was doing what it could, he supposed. _

_But as long as he did that… he wasn't actually better… _

_Wiggins went into the next room and began changing the sheets. But as he got thinking more about this imaginary replacement for him he started pulling the sheets off the bed in an overly aggressive manner. The whole thing was hurtful and insulting, really. Damn it._

_He caught himself and sighed aloud. He thought to himself: Did I fail somewhere? Is JIM more supportive? Why do you like him better? Why is he so much better at playing the loyal crutch?_

_Blowing his bangs out of his eyes, he tossed the sheets on the floor._

_And then there was running in the hallway. Loud running._

_  
Ratcliffe's voice came from the other room, surprising him. It used to be common place. Just how they were. But the Governor had stopped speaking to him like a friend a long time ago._

_Nevertheless, like old times, his voice came into the room. "Listen to that. The servants run amuck here, Wiggins. I constantly hear them fooling around or bickering loudly in the halls. The Count is oblivious. He runs a piss-poor ship." _

_Wiggins blinked. The Governor seemed more and more himself all the time._

_And then he realized it was his turn to speak. But it was very hard to know what to say at this point. He couldn't just trash his other master. This was an unfortunate dynamic. _

_He was tempted to just let it all out. This place was CRAZY. The count was a sweetheart, but he was totally eccentric. And the other servants were terrors. So many were taking advantage of the Count's oblivious, lax ways and carrying on like beasts. And some STOLE things._

_He wanted to vent about the crazed invention that almost took his arm off yesterday. Or the fact that he had to change the curtains to fit the colour of the count's MOOD… which changed far too frequently for the scheme to be PRACTICAL… He'd stayed up late into the night helping the count carve a random chess set once. The man couldn't sleep and wanted help carving the chess set in the wee hours. _

_He wanted to just speak his mind. Like old times. Even if the Governor interrupted, Wiggins still always spoke his mind. Servants didn't usually get to speak as much as he spoke. He just piped up all the damn time! And he was allowed to. _

_But instead – he played it safe and political and went for the middle road: "Working here certainly has its challenges." He sighed politely._

"_We put the Earl of Castlehaven to death for this kind of crap." _

_Wiggins covered his mouth so he wouldn't laugh aloud. Good one._

_He cleared his throat, went deadpan, and finished gathering the sheets._

_Wiggins came out into the main room and was actually quite glad to hear someone agreed with him about the state of this place. It was downright frustrating here most days. He loved order and decency and… well… ORDER, damn it… _

"_Anything else, sir?" _

"_Here. Take these." The Governor reached out._

_Wiggins took seven or eight marbles into his hand. _

"_I wonder if the Count has any marbles LEFT in his head?" Ratcliffe rolled his eyes. "I highly doubt it. They're all over the floor."_

_Another good one. It was hard to keep a straight face. _

_Ratcliffe added sternly, "He's a childish flake. Someone's going to break their neck. How many times does he need to fall down the STAIRS before he grows up?"_

_The attendant froze, staring down at the glass marbles. Then he looked up and stared deeply at his master for a long moment. The expression was some vulnerable blend of relief, sadness and affection._

_His eyes said – I've missed you. _

_The Governor didn't catch it. He continued, "They're literally everywhere. No wonder he's going bankrupt. If I'm not tripping on marbles, I'm tripping on tin soldiers or model ships or whatever. ERR! This place is a mad house!" _

_Wiggins blinked. THIS coming from the resident mad man?_

---

Wexford-Smyth huffed away from Chancellor Fawkes.

"You're NOT getting my WIGGINS!" Wexford-Smyth's voice boomed loudly for all to hear.

Knox, standing out of sight, froze. His back went straight as an arrow. There was a look of utter hurt on his face. He thought he'd been doing well. He'd been trying so very, very hard. This was so hurtful.

"Now, Billy-"

"I wouldn't trade him for a King's ransom. Don't mention it again." Wexford-Smyth was clearly very upset about the whole thing. "Sorry to be rude, Charlie, but just NEVER again, ok? Not happening."

And then he was gone.

Lon and Ben exchanged surprised glances. Billy? Charlie? These noblemen were so melodramatic. What the hell was THAT?

"I didn't know the Count's name was William." Lon muttered.

Knox was still standing in the shadows… looking utterly crestfallen.

Meanwhile, Ratcliffe was playing cards on the desk floor nearby with Thomas and some other sailors who were off duty.

He muttered, "Wiggins is actually MY servant."

"Who's Wiggins?" One of the boys blinked.

"Apparently the best servant in the UNIVERSE." Thomas rolled his eyes. "Every aristocrat on board it after him."

---

Wiggins and Knox were in the kitchen at the same time. There was a silence that was distinctly icy on Knox's part. This had been going on for quite some time. Clearly the young man had some unresolved issue.

And Wiggins had finally had enough. He unexpectedly plopped the tub he'd been carrying on the table with a loud thud. Knox was startled.

"OK. Can we just clear the air? There's enough drama around here without you treating me so bloody frosty."

Knox smirked in realization, "You actually have a backbone…"

"Excuse me?" Wiggins blinked in shock. "What ever gave you the impression that I'm stupid and spineless?"

The past few months had been dreadful, but they'd somewhat toughened him up. He'd had enough of all the BS. Just enough, damn it.

"You waltz around like a freaking fairy." Knox answered unkindly.

Wiggins was taken aback. What would Knox have thought if he'd seen him happy a few years earlier? Yeesh.

But that was irrelevant – "Why do you dislike me so? What did I do?"

"You're always showing me up!" Knox spat out honestly. "You're always so freaking perfect. My master keeps entertaining the idea of switching us. He wants you instead of me!"

Wiggins gasped and paled and it was just too horrible to be true. Not just because he'd lose Count Wexford-Smyth, but because Knox would lose HIS master too. Wiggins stuck to the servant's code right to the marrow. This was just sacrilege. Freaking sacrilege! ACK!

Knox saw the look on his face and got angry. "The High Chancellor is an EXCELLENT master, thank you very much!"

"Oh, no, no, no…" Wiggins rose his hands quickly. "I'm sure the Chancellor is wonderful. I just don't take a change in masters lightly!"

"I noticed." Knox rolled his eyes. "You're serving the Count AND Ratcliffe."

"I'm attached to my masters. I don't want to switch." Wiggins was sincere. "And I'm sure you feel the same. I'm worried for us BOTH."

Knox actually looked at him for a moment. His expression communicated caution, reappraisal. He was reading Wiggins guardedly.

And then he looked back to his work. He wasn't really sure what to say next.

"I'm sorry if I've inadvertently shown you up." Wiggins frowned. But he wasn't being a jerk. He sounded sincerely apologetic. "I had no idea I was putting us in this position…"

Knox wasn't sure what to say at all. He suddenly wasn't angry anymore. It was just awkward now. "Right. Well. Good day." And he walked out.

---

_It was the wee hours in Wexford-Smyth's manor…_

_And a door slammed loudly._

_The Governor awoke with a start. _

_A young girl's voice was in the hall, loudly – "You bastard! You slept with her! I knew it!" _

_And then another door slammed. _

"_A fucking mad house." The Governor pulled his pillow over his head._

---

Wiggins was trying to literally do five things at once. Wexford-Smyth was in one of his lazy, silly, demanding moods… And James Fuller had disappeared somewhere, leaving his charge alone doing crazy things…

Carrying a ton of sheets, books, a kettle and balancing six hats on his head carefully, he was trying to balance everything while rotating the meat on the fire… It was going to BURN… ahhh…

"Wiggins!" The count called merrily from one room.

"Wiggins!" The Governor called grumpily from another.

Ahhh…

Some books started to slip… He balanced everything precariously and continued to reach out…

"WIGGINS!" Ratcliffe and Wexford-Smyth called in unison.

"How did I get myself into this mess?" The lad asked himself tiredly.

"I've got it." Jiminy Knox was suddenly beside him. He rotated the meat.

"Thanks." Wiggins shuffled his load tiredly.

"Here." Knox took some books. "Let me help."

"Thanks." Wiggins repeated gratefully.

Knox didn't look friendly. He looked… civil…

And that was a very good start.

---

_Dancing was coming back to the Governor very quickly. Surprisingly quickly. _

_Jim always arranged for the same pretty kitchen girl to help. Sure, she was half-French, always unkempt and covered with dirt from her work… but she was lovely nonetheless… _

_She didn't know any of the elite dances of the aristocracy… but she learned very quickly… _

_She seemed shy. And she blushed a lot. _

_But as the weeks rolled on she started smiling now and then… and even laughing a little. She had a musical, pretty sort of laugh. She wouldn't get flustered anymore when she took a misstep. Now she would laugh it off pleasantly. They were getting comfortable._

_Her hands were very soft. And her hair was fair, but very messy. _

_She sometimes spoke French. It sounded so beautiful coming out of her mouth._

_Sure, she'd heard he was mad. But he seemed quite normal. She liked his voice, his eloquence, his educated ways… the way he conducted himself so properly always…She appreciated the attention. _

_Gradually, Jim arranged for him to spend a few quiet hours with her now and then teaching her to read. It never occurred to him to question anything JIM proposed. Jim was like God to him now._

_He failed to realize Jim didn't exist. The only one inviting this girl anywhere to do anything with HIM. And Wiggins was watching uncomfortably from the sidelines, feeling awkward and uncertain, but never intervening… _

_She learned her letters very quickly. They were just pictures, after all. She memorized them all within a few hours. Had you shown her flash cards, after a few sessions, she'd have whipped through them without hesitation. It was like memorizing the name of a SYMBOL, frankly. Very easy._

_  
Then she had to learn the different sounds each symbol could make… and the sorts of sounds they made together… This took much longer and was obviously more complicated…_

_All the while he was having her practice writing them… _

_And while she learned, he invisibly relearned. He taught himself without even realizing it. These were actually HIS lessons. Everything he taught her, he was simultaneously learning. _

_It was a pretty good strategy really considering his mental state. It worked. And on some level he knew that._

_One day they were sitting over all the books… He was wearing one of Wexford-Smyth's dashing hats. _

_She carefully, with a slight French accent, read aloud her first complicated sentence. It had three clauses. And she managed all by herself. No mistakes. He was impressed. It had been tricky, after all. _

"_Parfait, mademoiselle." He smiled at her._

_She blushed. And looked away. _

_And then unexpectedly, she pulled his hat over his eyes sweetly. "I love your hat." _

_As he pulled the point out of his eyes, he looked surprised. How informal. But then he smiled at her. He liked it._

_---_

_The lessons continued and he was reading and writing eventually. He was relearning his geography, sums, natural science, history, theology… all these good things were being reintroduced and he absorbed them like a sponge thanks to the comforting and helpful presence that was Jim. _

_Eventually, he seemed fairly normal. And he – without anyone's permission, of course – was relearning the use of firearms. He'd been an excellent marksman. It was one of his greatest strengths, actually. He'd always prided himself on it. He'd been a soldier earlier in life. _

_No one had even noticed him slip outside. He just started calmly preparing the clay disks for release. Then he started nonchalantly practicing his aim._

_BOOM!_

_Wexford-Smyth jumped in his armchair. He looked very startled. _

_What the hell? Where had that come from?!_

_Silence. The Governor had to set up the gun for each and every shot. _

_BOOM!_

_Wiggins looked out the window and frowned. _

"_What is it?!" The count demanded._

_BOOM!_

_It was tricky because Jack had to pull the cord and then fire, but he was fast enough do so effectively. Each shot hit the target perfectly, shattering each clay disk._

_BOOM!_

_As the governor prepared his gun again – getting faster at each time – there was a voice in the background:_

"_OH… MY… GOD…"_

_He didn't even register Wexford-Smyth's voice._

_BOOM!_

_Wiggins was running down the stairs as quickly as he could, a jacket half on. _

_The Count was chasing after him. _

"_Wiggins, no!" He ordered nervously. "He's a lunatic! You'll only confuse him and get shot! Everyone needs to stay inside. He'll run out of powder and then we'll pounce."_

_Wiggins blatantly ignored this and ran outside. _

_He flew lightly across the lawn with grace. He slowed as he approached the governor. Instinct told him the man wouldn't turn around and fire. He just wouldn't. _

_Actually – this man talked to imaginary, invisible people. Some of them dead and buried. And he'd had a few meltdowns that had been most distressing. He sometimes did very unexpected, frightening things. Like cutting himself horribly with glass in that tower. Or… or…_

_Wiggins couldn't think like that now. _

_But he couldn't speak either. He just stood there patiently. Obediently._

_Ratcliffe, without pausing or turning around, spoke plainly: "Ah, Wiggins. Good. Pull the cord." _

"_Of course, sir." Wiggins took his position. He also loaded more disks. _

_Wexford-Smyth's jaw dropped from the open doorway. For a moment he almost got angry. The boy had disobeyed him. And he felt a twinge of jealousy over the special bond he seemed to have with that boar of a Jack Ratcliffe. _

_But the Count was an easy going, good natured fellow and after a second those feelings faded away._

_The lunatic was getting better. That's what the king wanted. That was Wexford-Smyth's specific mission. This looked good on him. Everything was alright. No need getting caught up in pettiness and negativity. _

_As long as nobody got shot in his yard… whatever, right?_

_Wiggins turned to him apologetically. Obviously still confused about serving two different masters simultaneously._

_But the Count smiled at him and gave a pleasant gesture that indicated that things were going according to plan. Things looked promising._

_And then he added merrily – "My, my! He's a DEAD shot, hm?" _

"_The best I've ever seen, sir." Wiggins agreed. Relieved the count wasn't cross. Thank goodness!_

_The man SHOULD have been cross. He was entitled to being cross. And yet, for all his failings and foolishness – the Count was good natured. _

---

The full moon illuminated the waters beautifully. It was cold, but clear.

Wexford-Smyth burst into Fawkes cabin unannounced.

"Charlie, LAND!"

"ACK!!" Fawkes fell out of bed.

Knox sprang forward with the loud click of a firearm.

"AH!" The Count recoiled in surprise. "What the hell?"

"It's just the idiot count…" Fawkes' voice came from the floor tiredly.

Knox lowered the gun slowly. Then he lit a candle.

Sure enough, Wexford-Smyth was standing there in his undergarments looking all excited and happy.

"Count… It's the dead of night…"

"And in the moonlight the men have spotted VIRGINIA!" The count said gleefully, wringing his hands excitedly. "The New World!"

"Get out. I'm not decent." Fawkes muttered.

"It's just underwear, Charlie. REALLY. This is VIRGINIA we're talking about!"

"I'll see it in the morning." Fawkes got back into bed.

"Oh, you're no fun a'tall." The count rolled his eyes and walked out.

Knox put the gun away and shook his head, "You'd swear he was a five year old on Christmas morning." The young man grumbled bitterly.

Fawkes chuckled at this. "Well put. Will's always been a silly prat."

And then he added:

"You're smart with a gun, Knox. Nicely done."

"Thank you, sir. Good night." Jiminy blew out the candle.

---

The next morning Fawkes and Knox came out onto the deck…

They were fairly close to land now. They could see it clearly and they could smell earth and trees.

Smith approached the High Chancellor. "Jamestown has ocean access. We'll be in the Bay within the hour…"

"Good, good." Fawkes adjusted his hat.

Wexford-Smyth looked gleeful. "I just LOVE the smell of the place!"

---

"Do you smell that?" Ratcliffe, locked away below deck, looked up from his drawing.

"Smell what?" Wiggins asked pleasantly.

Ratcliffe was smelling his favourite smell. Ancient forest of the New World.

"I smell trees." He looked around seriously.

"Nonsense, Jack. Look at the kitten I drew." James held up a terrible little stick drawing.

"And I drew a butterfly." Wiggins held up a very colourful butterfly.

"You WOULD draw something like that." Fuller frowned.

"What's that supposed to mean? You drew a KITTEN." Wiggins snorted.

The Governor was the only one who'd drawn anything decent. He'd sketched a rather good war ship. He was working on the detail now.

"Did you fight in naval battles?" Jim was curious suddenly.

"I fought in Ireland with Ralph Lane. I can still see Laney. We were covered head to foot in mud and blood. But we never felt more alive. I'll never be that skilled or healthy again."

"Moment of clarity?" Jim looked hopefully. "Fountain of youth?"

Wiggins rolled his eyes with distaste. But, as usual, he held his tongue.

The Governor was distracted again. He was back into his sketch.

He failed to notice that all the windows were COVERED.

---

"OK…" Smith told the guards. "When we get there – he isn't allowed to see the place, hear about the place… He's not allowed on deck. He's not allowed to look out any windows. Just keep him below deck. Preferably in his quarters. And, so help me God, if he gets off this ship there will be hell to pay."

They had a small crew… and most of them would be maintaining the ship or going to shore to Jamestown to resupply. It didn't leave very many for guard duty. And Captain Smith didn't like that at all. NOT ideal.

Smith added, "I'm going to spread the word amongst those working the ship to keep their eyes peeled too. We're really undermanned and he could pull a fast one! He's sly."

"Relax, Smith." Wexford-Smyth was overdramatically dressed like a woodsman. Ready to explore the New World. "The madman thinks he's Amerigo Vespucci today. He's thinks we're all Portuguese. He's as incoherent and foolish as ever."

Smith ignored this and warned the men – "Don't underestimate this guy. He's capable of anything."

"Wiggins and Fuller are in the room with him." Wexford-Smyth interjected again. "I'm not worried at all."

Smith looked very irritated. But he had his back to the Count so the expression was fortunately hidden.

He cleared his throat and said to the guards – "DON'T let him escape."

---

**A/N: Mega drama!! Curse, creatures, some kind of evil force at work, a treasure city / fountain of youth quest, the French getting involved, a ton of melodramatic relationships and now their at Jamestown! Let's throw those characters into the mix. ACK!**

**I realize Ratcliffe seems so weak and wacko these days, but he has a very good excuse! The reason for his uncharacteristic behaviour and downright madness is becoming very apparent, hm? … Yikes.**

**Long chapters, but much revealed.**

**If you like it please review and let me know. It encourages me to continue.**

**Next chapter is the Jamestown drama. Whenever I get to it.**


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